“Who touches my brother touches Tavannes!” the Marshal answered with a menacing gesture.  He was sober enough, it appeared, to hear what was said, but not to comprehend its drift; and this caused a titter, which immediately excited his rage.  He turned and seized the nearest laugher by the ear.  “Insolent!” he cried.  “I will teach you to laugh when the King speaks!  Puppy!  Who laughs at his Majesty or touches my brother has to do with Tavannes!”

The King, in a rage that almost deprived him of speech, stamped the floor twice.

“Idiot!” he cried.  “Imbecile!  Let the man go!  ’Tis not he!  ’Tis your heretic brother, I tell you!  By all the Saints!  By the body of—­” and he poured forth a flood of oaths.  “Will you listen to me and be silent!  Will you—­your brother—­”

“If he be not your Majesty’s servant, I will kill him with this sword!” the irrepressible Marshal struck in.  “As I have killed ten to-day!  Ten!” And, staggering back, he only saved himself from falling by clutching Chicot about the neck.

“Steady, my pretty Marechale!” the jester cried, chucking him under the chin with one hand, while with some difficulty he supported him with the other—­for he, too, was far from sober—­

   “Pretty Margot, toy with me,
   Maiden bashful—­”

“Silence!” Charles cried, darting forth his long arms in a fury of impatience.  “God, have I killed every man of sense?  Are you all gone mad?  Silence!  Do you hear?  Silence!  And let me hear what he has to say,” with a movement towards Count Hannibal.  “And look you, sirrah,” he continued with a curse, “see that it be to the purpose!”

“If it be a question of your Majesty’s service,” Tavannes answered, “and obedience to your Majesty’s orders, I am deeper in it than he who stands there!” with a sign towards the priest.  “I give my word for that.  And I will prove it.”

“How, sir?” Charles cried.  “How, how, how?  How will you prove it?”

“By doing for you, sire, what he will not do!” Tavannes answered scornfully.  “Let him stand out, and if he will serve his Church as I will serve my King—­”

“Blaspheme not!” cried the priest.

“Chatter not!” Tavannes retorted hardily, “but do!  Better is he,” he continued, “who takes a city than he who slays women!  Nay, sire,” he went on hurriedly, seeing the King start, “be not angry, but hear me!  You would send to Biron, to the Arsenal?  You seek a messenger, sire?  Then let the good father be the man.  Let him take your Majesty’s will to Biron, and let him see the Grand Master face to face, and bring him to reason.  Or, if he will not, I will!  Let that be the test!”

“Ay, ay!” cried Marshal de Tavannes, “you say well, brother!  Let him!”

“And if he will not, I will!” Tavannes repeated.  “Let that be the test, sire.”

The King wheeled suddenly to Father Pezelay.  “You hear, father?” he said.  “What say you?”