The play, which seemed long enough to me, might have lasted longer, seeing that no one there had pity on me, had I not, in my desperation, espied a door at the farther end of the room, and concluded, seeing no other, that it was the door of the king’s bedchamber. The mortification I was suffering was so great that I did not hesitate, but advanced with boldness towards it. On the instant there was a lull in the laughter round me, and half a dozen voices called on me to stop. ‘I have come to see the king,’ I answered, turning on them fiercely, for I was by this time in no mood for browbeating, ‘and I will see him!’ ‘He is out hunting,’ cried all with one accord; and they signed imperiously to me to go back the way I had come. But having the king’s appointment safe in my pouch, I thought I had good reason to disbelieve them; and taking advantage of their surprise--for they had not expected so bold a step on my part--I was at the door before they could prevent me. I heard Mathurine, the fool, who had sprung to her feet, cry ‘Pardieu! he will take the Kingdom of Heaven by force!’ and those were the last words I heard; for, as I lifted the latch--there was no one on guard there--a sudden swift silence fell upon the room behind me. I pushed the door gently open and went in. There were two men sitting in one of the windows, who turned and looked angrily towards me. For the rest the room was empty. The king’s walking-shoes lay by his chair, and beside them the boot-hooks and jack. A dog before the fire got up slowly and growled, and one of the men, rising from the trunk on which he had been sitting, came towards me and asked me, with every sign of irritation, what I wanted there, and who had given me leave to enter. I was beginning to explain, with some diffidence the stillness of the room sobering me--that I wished to see the king, when he who had advanced took me up sharply with, ‘The king? the king? He is not here, man. He is hunting at St. Valery. Did they not tell you so outside?’ I thought I recognised the speaker, than whom I have seldom seen a man more grave and thoughtful for his years, which were something less than mine, more striking in presence, or more soberly dressed. And being desirous to evade his question, I asked him if I had not the honour to address M. du Plessis Mornay; for that wise and courtly statesman, now a pillar of Henry’s counsels, it was. ‘The same, sir,’ he replied, abruptly, and without taking his eyes from me. ‘I am Mornay. What of that?’ ‘I am M. de Marsac,’ I explained. And there I stopped, supposing that, as he was in the king’s confidence, this would make my errand clear to him. But I was disappointed. ‘Well, sir?’ he said, and waited impatiently.