They were still wondering, still gazing, when abruptly--as he did all
things--Charles thrust back his chair.
"Foucauld, you owe me ten pieces!" he cried with glee, and he slapped the
table. "Pay, my friend; pay!"
"To-morrow, little master; to-morrow!" Rochefoucauld answered in the same
tone. And he rose to his feet.
"To-morrow!" Charles repeated. "To-morrow?" And on the word his jaw
fell. He looked wildly round. His face was ghastly.
"Well, sire, and why not?" Rochefoucauld answered in astonishment. And
in his turn he looked round, wondering; and a chill fell on him. "Why
not?" he repeated.
For a moment no one answered him: the silence in the Chamber was intense.
Where he looked, wherever he looked, he met solemn, wondering eyes, such
eyes as gaze on men in their coffins.
"What has come to you all?" he cried, with an effort. "What is the jest,
for faith, sire, I don't see it?"
The King seemed incapable of speech, and it was Chicot who filled the
gap.
"It is pretty apparent," he said, with a rude laugh. "The cock will lay
and Foucauld will pay--to-morrow!"
The young nobleman's colour rose; between him and the Gascon gentleman
was no love lost.
"There are some debts I pay to-day," he cried haughtily. "For the rest,
farewell my little master! When one does not understand the jest it is
time to be gone."
He was halfway to the door, watched by all, when the King spoke.
"Foucauld!" he cried, in an odd, strangled voice. "Foucauld!" And the
Huguenot favourite turned back, wondering. "One minute!" the King
continued, in the same forced voice. "Stay till morning--in my closet.
It is late now. We'll play away the rest of the night!"
"Your Majesty must excuse me," Rochefoucauld answered frankly. "I am
dead asleep."
"You can sleep in the Garde-Robe," the King persisted.
"Thank you for nothing, sire!" was the gay answer. "I know that bed! I
shall sleep longer and better in my own."
The King shuddered, but strove to hide the movement under a shrug of his
shoulders. He turned away.
"It is God's will!" he muttered. He was white to the lips.
Rochefoucauld did not catch the words. "Good night, sire," he cried.
"Farewell, little master." And with a nod here and there, he passed to
the door, followed by Mergey and Chamont, two gentlemen of his suite.
Nancay raised the curtain with an obsequious gesture. "Pardon me, M. le
Comte," he said, "do you go to his Highness's?"
"For a few minutes, Nancay."
"Permit me to go with you. The guards may be set."
"Do so, my friend," Rochefoucauld answered. "Ah, Tignonville, is it
you?"
"I am come to attend you to your lodging," the young man said. And he
ranged up beside the other, as, the curtain fallen behind them, they
walked along the gallery.