“He will come,” Tavannes answered, and moved, as if to go on. Then he paused for a last word. “He will come,” he muttered, stooping and speaking under his breath, his eyes on the other’s face. “But play him lightly. He is in an ugly mood. Please him, if you can, and it may serve.”
The eyes of the two met an instant, and those of Foucauld—so the King called his Huguenot favourite—betrayed some surprise; for Count Hannibal and he were not intimate. But seeing that the other was in earnest, he raised his brows in acknowledgment. Tavannes nodded carelessly in return, looked an instant at the cards on the table, and passed on, pushed his way through the circle, and reached the door. He was lifting the curtain to go out, when Nançay, the Captain of the Guard, plucked his sleeve.
“What have you been saying to Foucauld, M. de Tavannes?” he muttered.
“I?”
“Yes,” with a jealous glance, “you, M. le Comte.”
Count Hannibal looked at him with the sudden ferocity that made the man a proverb at Court.
“What I chose, M. le Capitaine des Suisses!” he hissed. And his hand closed like a vice on the other’s wrist. “What I chose, look you! And remember, another time, that I am not a Huguenot, and say what I please.”
“But there is great need of care,” Nançay protested, stammering and flinching. “And—and I have orders, M. le Comte.”
“Your orders are not for me,” Tavannes answered, releasing his arm with a contemptuous gesture. “And look you, man, do not cross my path to-night. You know our motto? Who touches my brother, touches Tavannes! Be warned by it.”
Nançay scowled. “But the priests say, ‘If your hand offend you, cut it off!’” he muttered.
