At these words, which produced the effect of a peal of thunder, prevailing over the orchestra, the singing and the buzz of the promenaders, the cardinal and the queen-mother looked at each other with surprise. Louis XIV., pale, but resolved, supported as he was by that intuition of his own thought which he had found in the mind of the officer of musketeers, and which he had just manifested by the order given, arose from his chair, and took a step towards the door. “Are you going, my son?” said the queen, whilst Mazarin satisfied himself with interrogating by a look which might have appeared mild if it had not been so piercing. “Yes, madame,” replied the king; “I am fatigued, and, besides, wish to write this evening.” A smile stole over the lips of the minister, who appeared, by a bend of the head, to give the king permission. Monsieur and Madame hastened to give orders to the officers who presented themselves. The king bowed, crossed the hall, and gained the door, where a hedge of twenty musketeers awaited him. At the extremity of this hedge stood the officer, impassible, with his drawn sword in his hand. The king passed, and all the crowd stood on tip-toe, to have one more look at him. Ten musketeers, opening the crowd of the ante-chambers and the steps, made way for his majesty. The other ten surrounded the king and Monsieur, who had insisted upon accompanying his majesty. The domestics walked behind. This little cortege escorted the king to the chamber destined for him. The apartment was the same that had been occupied by Henry III. during his sojourn in the States. Monsieur had given his orders. The musketeers, led by their officer, took possession of the little passage by which one wing of the castle communicates with the other. This passage was commenced by a small square ante-chamber, dark even in the finest days. Monsieur stopped Louis XIV. “You are passing now, sire,” said he, “the very spot where the Duc de Guise received the first stab of the poniard.” The king was ignorant of all historical matters; he had heard of the fact, but he knew nothing of the localities or the details. “Ah!” said he with a shudder. And he stopped. The rest, both behind and before him, stopped likewise. “The duc, sire,” continued Gaston, “was nearly where I stand: he was walking in the same direction as your majesty; M. de Lorgnes was exactly where your lieutenant of musketeers is; M. de Saint-Maline and his majesty’s ordinaries were behind him and around him. It was here that he was struck.” The king turned towards his officer, and saw something like a cloud pass over his martial and daring countenance. “Yes, from behind!” murmured the lieutenant, with a gesture of supreme disdain. And he endeavored to resume the march, as if ill at ease at being between walls formerly defiled by treachery. But the king, who appeared to wish to be informed, was disposed to give another look at this dismal spot. Gaston perceived his nephew’s desire.