"Tavannes!"

"Sire!"

Count Hannibal rose slowly. The King had called, and he had no choice
but to obey and go. Yet he hung a last moment over his companion, his
hateful breath stirring her hair.

"Our pleasure is cut short too soon, Mademoiselle," he said, in the tone,
and with the look, she loathed. "But for a few hours only. We shall
meet to-morrow. Or, it may be--earlier."

She did not answer, and "Tavannes!" the King repeated with violence.
"Tavannes! Mordieu!" his Majesty continued, looking round furiously.
"Will no one fetch him? Sacre nom, am I King, or a dog of a--"

"I come, sire!" the Count cried hastily. For Charles, King of France,
Ninth of the name, was none of the most patient; and scarce another in
the Court would have ventured to keep him waiting so long. "I come,
sire; I come!" Tavannes repeated, as he moved from Mademoiselle's side.

He shouldered his way through the circle of courtiers, who barred the
road to the presence, and in part hid her from observation. He pushed
past the table at which Charles and the Comte de Rochefoucauld had been
playing primero, and at which the latter still sat, trifling idly with
the cards. Three more paces, and he reached the King, who stood in the
_ruelle_ with Rambouillet and the Italian Marshal. It was the latter
who, a moment before, had summoned his Majesty from his game.

Mademoiselle, watching him go, saw so much; so much, and the King's