They were still wondering, still gazing, when abruptly—as he did all things—Charles thrust back his chair.
“Foucauld, you owe me ten pieces!” he cried with glee, and he slapped the table. “Pay, my friend; pay!”
“To-morrow, little master; to-morrow!” Rochefoucauld answered in the same tone. And he rose to his feet.
“To-morrow!” Charles repeated. “To-morrow?” And on the word his jaw fell. He looked wildly round. His face was ghastly.
“Well, sire, and why not?” Rochefoucauld answered in astonishment. And in his turn he looked round, wondering; and a chill fell on him. “Why not?” he repeated.
For a moment no one answered him: the silence in the Chamber was intense. Where he looked, wherever he looked, he met solemn, wondering eyes, such eyes as gaze on men in their coffins.
“What has come to you all?” he cried, with an effort. “What is the jest, for faith, sire, I don’t see it?”
The King seemed incapable of speech, and it was Chicot who filled the gap.
“It is pretty apparent,” he said, with a rude laugh. “The cock will lay and Foucauld will pay—to-morrow!”
The young nobleman’s colour rose; between him and the Gascon gentleman was no love lost.
“There are some debts I pay to-day,” he cried haughtily. “For the rest, farewell my little master! When one does not understand the jest it is time to be gone.”
He was halfway to the door, watched by all, when the King spoke.
“Foucauld!” he cried, in an odd, strangled voice. “Foucauld!” And the Huguenot favourite turned back, wondering. “One minute!” the King continued, in the same forced voice. “Stay till morning—in my closet. It is late now. We’ll play away the rest of the night!”
