Monsieur entered with a salver containing a silver cup of wine and some Rheims biscuit.  He offered it to her formally; she accepted with scarcely audible thanks, and sat, barely touching the wine to her lips, crumbling the biscuit into bits with restless fingers, making the pretence of a meal serve as excuse for her silence.  Monsieur glanced at her, puzzled-wise, waiting for her to speak.  Had the Infanta Isabella come to visit him, he could not have been more surprised.  It seemed to him discourteous to press her; he waited for her to explain her presence.

I wanted to shake mademoiselle.  With a dozen swift words, with a glance of her blue eyes, she could sweep Monsieur off his feet as she had swept Vigo.  And instead, she sat there, not daring to look at him, like a child caught stealing sweets.  She had found words to defend herself from the teasing tongues at the Hotel de Lorraine, to plead for me, to lash Lucas, to move Mayenne himself; but she could not find one syllable for the Duke of St. Quentin.  She had been to admiration the laughing coquette, the stout champion, the haughty great lady, the frank lover; but now she was the shy child, blushing, stammering, constrained.

Had Monsieur attacked her with blunt questions, had he demanded of her up and down what had brought her this strange road at such amazing hour and in such unfitting company, she must needs have answered, and, once started, she would quickly have kindled her fire again.  Had he, on other part, with a smile, an encouraging word, given her ever so little a push, she had gone on easily enough.  But he did neither.  He was courteous and cold.  Partly was his coldness real; he could not look on her as other than the daughter of his enemy’s house, ward of the man who had schemed to kill him, will-o’-the-wisp who had lured his son to disaster.  Partly was it mere absence; M. Etienne’s plight was more to him than mademoiselle’s.  When she spoke not, he turned impatiently to me.

“Tell me, Felix, all about it.”

Before I could answer him the door behind us opened to admit two gentlemen, shoulder to shoulder.  They were dressed much alike, plainly, in black.  One was about thirty years of age, tall, thin-faced, and dark, and of a gravity and dignity beyond his years.  Living was serious business to him; his eyes were thoughtful, steady, and a little cold.  His companion was some ten years older; his beard and curling hair, worn away from his forehead by the helmet’s chafing, were already sprinkled with gray.  He had a great beak of a nose and dark-gray eyes, as keen as a hawk’s, and a look of amazing life and vim.  The air about him seemed to tingle with it.  We had all done something, we others; we were no shirks or sluggards:  but the force in him put us out, penny candles before the sun.  I deem not Jeanne the Maid did any marvel when she recognized King Charles at Chinon.  Here was I, a common lout, never heard a heavenly voice in all my days, yet I knew in the flick of an eye that this was Henri Quatre.