“Your Majesty must excuse me,” Rochefoucauld answered frankly. “I am dead asleep.”
“You can sleep in the Garde-Robe,” the King persisted.
“Thank you for nothing, sire!” was the gay answer. “I know that bed! I shall sleep longer and better in my own.”
The King shuddered, but strove to hide the movement under a shrug of his shoulders. He turned away.
“It is God’s will!” he muttered. He was white to the lips.
Rochefoucauld did not catch the words. “Good night, sire,” he cried. “Farewell, little master.” And with a nod here and there, he passed to the door, followed by Mergey and Chamont, two gentlemen of his suite.
Nançay raised the curtain with an obsequious gesture. “Pardon me, M. le Comte,” he said, “do you go to his Highness’s?”
“For a few minutes, Nançay.”
“Permit me to go with you. The guards may be set.”
“Do so, my friend,” Rochefoucauld answered. “Ah, Tignonville, is it you?”
“I am come to attend you to your lodging,” the young man said. And he ranged up beside the other, as, the curtain fallen behind them, they walked along the gallery.
Rochefoucauld stopped and laid his hand on Tignonville’s sleeve.
“Thanks, dear lad,” he said, “but I am going to the Princess Dowager’s. Afterwards to his Highness’s. I may be detained an hour or more. You will not like to wait so long.”
M. de Tignonville’s face fell ludicrously. “Well, no,” he said. “I—I don’t think I could wait so long—to-night.”
“Then come to-morrow night,” Rochefoucauld answered, with good nature.
