He sank into a mournful silence; and Tavannes, after gazing at him awhile in rough pity, fell to his own meditations, which were gloomy enough.  The day was beginning to wane, and with the downward turn, though the sun still shone brightly through the southern windows, a shadow seemed to fall across his thoughts.  They no longer rioted in a turmoil of defiance as in the forenoon.  In its turn, sober reflection marshalled the past before his eyes.  The hopes of a life, the ambitions of a life, moved in sombre procession, and things done and things left undone, the sovereignty which Nostradamus had promised, the faces of men he had spared and of men he had not spared—­and the face of one woman.

She would not now be his.  He had played highly, and he would lose highly, playing the game to the end, that to-morrow she might think of him highly.  Had she begun to think of him at all?  In the chamber of the inn at Angers he had fancied a change in her, an awakening to life and warmth, a shadow of turning to him.  It had pleased him to think so, at any rate.  It pleased him still to imagine—­of this he was more confident—­that in the time to come, when she was Tignonville’s, she would think of him secretly and kindly.  She would remember him, and in her thoughts and in her memory he would grow to the heroic, even as the man she had chosen would shrink as she learned to know him.

It pleased him, that.  It was almost all that was left to please him—­that, and to die proudly as he had lived.  But as the day wore on, and the room grew hot and close, and the pain in his thigh became more grievous, the frame of his mind altered.  A sombre rage was born and grew in him, and a passion fierce and ill-suppressed.  To end thus, with nothing done, nothing accomplished of all his hopes and ambitions!  To die thus, crushed in a corner by a mean priest and a rabble of spearmen, he who had seen Dreux and Jarnac, had defied the King, and dared to turn the St. Bartholomew to his ends!  To die thus, and leave her to that puppet!  Strong man as he was, of a strength of will surpassed by few, it taxed him to the utmost to lie and make no sign.  Once, indeed, he raised himself on his elbow with something between an oath and a snarl, and he seemed about to speak.  So that Bigot came hurriedly to him.

“My lord?”

“Water!” he said.  “Water, fool!” And, having drunk, he turned his face to the wall, lest he should name her or ask for her.

For the desire to see her before he died, to look into her eyes, to touch her hand once, only once, assailed his mind and all but whelmed his will.  She had been with him, he knew it, in the night; she had left him only at daybreak.  But then, in his state of collapse, he had been hardly conscious of her presence.  Now to ask for her or to see her would stamp him coward, say what he might to her.  The proverb, that the King’s face gives grace, applied to her; and an overture on his side could mean but one thing, that he sought her grace.  And that he would not do though the cold waters of death covered him more and more, and the coming of the end—­in that quiet chamber, while the September sun sank to the appointed place—­awoke wild longings and a wild rebellion in his breast.  His thoughts were very bitter, as he lay, his loneliness of the uttermost.  He turned his face to the wall.