"Shall the King give with one hand and withdraw with the other?" the
priest began, in a voice hoarse yet strident, a voice borne high above
the crowd on the wings of passion. "Shall he spare of the best of the
men and the maidens whom God hath doomed, whom the Church hath devoted,
whom the King hath given? Is the King's hand shortened or his word
annulled that a man does as he forbiddeth and leaves undone what he
commandeth? Is God mocked? Woe, woe unto you," he continued, turning
swiftly, arms uplifted, towards Tavannes, "who please yourself with the
red and white of their maidens and take of the best of the spoil, sparing
where the King's word is 'Spare not'! Who strike at Holy Church with the
sword! Who--"
"Answer, sirrah!" Charles cried, spurning the floor in his fury. He
could not listen long to any man. "Is it so? Is it so? Do you do these
things?"
Count Hannibal shrugged his shoulders and was about to answer, when a
thick, drunken voice rose from the crowd behind him.
"Is it what? Eh! Is it what?" it droned. And a figure with bloodshot
eyes, disordered beard, and rich clothes awry, forced its way through the
obsequious circle. It was Marshal Tavannes. "Eh, what? You'd beard the
King, would you?" he hiccoughed truculently, his eyes on Father Pezelay,
his hand on his sword. "Were you a priest ten times--"
"Silence!" Charles cried, almost foaming with rage at this fresh
interruption. "It's not he, fool! 'Tis your pestilent brother."
"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--"