We ate in silence; even after Croisette by grasping my hand under the table had begged me not to judge him hastily.  The two at the upper end talked fast, and from the little that reached us, I judged that the priest was pressing some course on his host, which the latter declined to take.

Once Bezers raised his voice.  “I have my own ends to serve!” he broke out angrily, adding a fierce oath which the priest did not rebuke, “and I shall serve them.  But there I stop.  You have your own.  Well, serve them, but do not talk to me of the cause!  The cause?  To hell with the cause!  I have my cause, and you have yours, and my lord of Guise has his!  And you will not make me believe that there is any other!”

“The king’s?” suggested the priest, smiling sourly.

“Say rather the Italian woman’s!” the Vidame answered recklessly—­meaning the queen-mother, Catharine de’ Medici, I supposed.

“Well, then, the cause of the Church?” the priest persisted.

“Bah!  The Church?  It is you, my friend!” Bezers rejoined, rudely tapping his companion—­at that moment in the act of crossing himself—­on the chest.  “The Church?” he continued; “no, no, my friend.  I will tell you what you are doing.  You want me to help you to get rid of your branch, and you offer in return to aid me with mine—­and then, say you, there will be no stick left to beat either of us.  But you may understand once for all”—­and the Vidame struck his hand heavily down among the glasses—­“that I will have no interference with my work, master Clerk!  None!  Do you hear?  And as for yours, it is no business of mine.  That is plain speaking, is it not?”

The priest’s hand shook as he raised a full glass to his lips, but he made no rejoinder, and the Vidame, seeing we had finished, rose.  “Armand!” he cried, his face still dark, “take these gentlemen to their chamber.  You understand?”

We stiffly acknowledged his salute—­the priest taking no notice of us—­and followed the servant from the room; going along a corridor and up a steep flight of stairs, and seeing enough by the way to be sure that resistance was hopeless.  Doors opened silently as we passed, and grim fellows, in corslets and padded coats, peered out.  The clank of arms and murmur of voices sounded continuously about us; and as we passed a window the jingle of bits, and the hollow clang of a restless hoof on the flags below, told us that the great house was for the time a fortress.  I wondered much.  For this was Paris, a city with gates and guards; the night a short August night.  Yet the loneliest manor in Quercy could scarcely have bristled with more pikes and musquetoons, on a winter’s night and in time of war.

No doubt these signs impressed us all; and Croisette not least.  For suddenly I heard him stop, as he followed us up the narrow staircase, and begin without warning to stumble down again as fast as he could.  I did not know what he was about; but muttering something to Marie, I followed the lad to see.  At the foot of the flight of stairs I looked back, Marie and the servant were standing in suspense, where I had left them.  I heard the latter bid us angrily to return.