“My knife?  I may have my knife?  By the beard of St. Peter, I swear to you, I meant no harm with it.  I drew it in jest.”

Now, this, which was the sole true statement he had made since our arrival, was the only one Pierre did not quite believe.  He took the knife from Jean, but he hesitated to hand it over to its owner.

“No,” he said; “you were angry enough.  I know your Italian temper.  I’m thinking I’ll keep this little toy of yours till you come down.”

“Very well, Sir Majordomo,” M. Etienne rejoined indifferently, “so be it you give it to me when I go.”  He grasped the handle of the box, and we followed our guide up the stair, my master offering me the comforting assurance: 

“It really matters not in the least, for if we be caught the dagger’s not yet forged can save us.”

We were ushered into a large, fair chamber hung with arras, the carpet under our feet deep and soft as moss.  At one side stood the bed, raised on its dais; opposite were the windows, the dressing-table between them, covered with scent-bottles and boxes, brushes and combs, very glittering and grand.  Fluttering about the room were some half-dozen fine dames and demoiselles, brave in silks and jewels.  Among them I was quick to recognize Mme. de Mayenne, and I thought I knew vaguely one or two other faces as those I had seen before about her.  I started presently to discover the little Mlle. de Tavanne:  that night she had worn sky-colour and now she wore rose, but there was no mistaking her saucy face.

We set our box on a table, as the duchess bade us, and I helped M. Etienne to lay out its contents, which done, I retired to the background, well content to leave the brunt of the business to him.  It was as he prophesied:  they paid me no heed whatever.  He was smoothly launched on the third relating of his tale; I trow by this time he almost believed it himself.  Certes, he never faltered, but rattled on as if he had two tongues, telling in confidential tone of our father and mother, our little brothers and sisters at home in Florence; our journey with the legate, his kindness and care of us (I hoped that dignitary would not walk in just now to pay his respects to madame la generale); of our arrival in Paris, and our wonder and delight at the city’s grandeur, the like of which was not to be found in Italy; and, last, but not least, he had much to say, with an innocent, wide-eyed gravity, in praise of the ladies of Paris, so beautiful, so witty, so generous!  They were all crowding around him, calling him pretty boy, laughing at his compliments, handling and exclaiming over his trinkets, trying the effect of a buckle or a bracelet, preening and cooing like bright-breasted pigeons about the corn-thrower.  It was as pretty a sight as ever I beheld, but it was not to smile at such that we had risked our heads.  Of Mlle. de Montluc there was no sign.