"In the palace?" he muttered. "Is it to be done here, too, sire?"

"Would you let some escape, to return by-and-by and cut our throats?" the
King retorted, with a strange spirt of fury; an incapacity to maintain
the same attitude of mind for two minutes together was the most fatal
weakness of his ill-balanced nature. "No. All! All!" he repeated with
vehemence. "Didn't Noah people the earth with eight? But I'll not leave
eight! My cousins, for they are blood-royal, shall live if they will
recant. And my old nurse, whether or no. And Pare, for no one else
understands my complexion. And--"

"And Rochefoucauld, doubtless, sire?"

The King, whose eye had sought his favourite companion, withdrew it. He
darted a glance at Tavannes.

"Foucauld? Who said so?" he muttered jealously. "Not I! But we shall
see. We shall see! And do you see that you spare no one, M. le Comte,
without an order. That is your business."

"I understand, sire," Tavannes answered coolly. And after a moment's
silence, seeing that the King had done with him, he bowed low and
withdrew; watched by the circle, as all about a King were watched in the
days when a King's breath meant life or death, and his smile made the
fortunes of men. As he passed Rochefoucauld, the latter looked up and
nodded.

"What keeps brother Charles?" he muttered. "He's madder than ever to-
night. Is it a masque or a murder he is planning?"