Part 138 (1/2)

D'Alencon stood motionless. It was not Henry, then, who had mounted the secret staircase. All the agony he had undergone during the last quarter of an hour had been useless. What he thought was over or almost over was only beginning.

Francois opened the door of his chamber, then holding it so he listened.

This time he could not be mistaken, it was Henry himself; he recognized his step and the peculiar jingle of his spurs.

Henry's door opened and closed.

D'Alencon returned to his room and sank into an armchair.

”Good!” said he, ”this is what is now taking place: he has pa.s.sed through the antechamber, the first room, the sleeping-room; then he glances to see if his sword, his purse, his dagger are there; at last he finds the book open on his table.

”'What book is this?' he asks himself. 'Who has brought it?'

”Then he draws nearer, sees the picture of the horseman calling his falcon, wants to read, tries to turn the leaves.”

A cold perspiration started to the brow of Francois.

”Will he call? Is the effect of the poison sudden? No, no, for my mother said he would die of slow consumption.”

This thought somewhat rea.s.sured him.

Ten minutes pa.s.sed thus, a century of agony, dragging by second after second, each supplying all that the imagination could invent in the way of maddening terror, a world of visions.

D'Alencon could stand it no longer. He rose and crossed the antechamber, which was beginning to fill with gentlemen.

”Good morning, gentlemen,” said he, ”I am going to the King.”

And to distract his consuming anxiety, and perhaps to prepare an _alibi_, D'Alencon descended to his brother's apartments. Why did he go there? He did not know. What had he to say? Nothing! It was not Charles he sought--it was Henry he fled.

He took the winding staircase and found the door of the King's apartments half opened. The guards let the duke enter without opposition. On hunting days there was neither etiquette nor orders.

Francois traversed successively the antechamber, the salon, and the bedroom without meeting any one. He thought Charles must be in the armory and opened the door leading thither.

The King was seated before a table, in a deep carved armchair. He had his back to the door, and appeared to be absorbed in what he was doing.

The duke approached on tiptoe; Charles was reading.

”By Heaven!” cried he, suddenly, ”this is a fine book. I had heard of it, but I did not know it could be had in France.”

D'Alencon listened and advanced a step.

”Cursed leaves!” said the King, wetting his thumb and applying it to the pages; ”it looks as though they had been stuck together on purpose to conceal the wonders they contain from the eyes of man.”

D'Alencon bounded forward. The book over which Charles was bending was the one he had left in Henry's room. A dull cry broke from him.

”Ah, is it you, Francois?” said Charles, ”you are welcome; come and see the finest book on hunting which ever came from the pen of man.”

D'Alencon's first impulse was to s.n.a.t.c.h the volume from the hands of his brother; but an infernal thought restrained him; a frightful smile pa.s.sed over his pallid lips, and he rubbed his hand across his eyes like a man dazed. Then recovering himself by degrees, but without moving:

”Sire,” he asked, ”how did this book come into your Majesty's possession?”