Marcel was visibly surprised at the sight of the medal, and said to his wife: "Dear Marguerite, I shall not be able to enjoy even the short hour of rest that I promised myself. Leave me alone now. Go down with Denise. Jocelyn cannot now be long coming. Do not stay supper for me"; and turning to Agnes the Bigot: "Lead the man upstairs." "Marcel," said Marguerite uneasily, while the servant withdrew to execute her master's orders, "you are fatigued, and will you not take even time enough for a meal?" "In a few minutes, when I go down again, I shall take a few mouthfuls before leaving." "What! Another night!" "I convoked a night meeting to the convent of the Cordeliers," explained Marcel, assuming a serious expression; "the funeral of Perrin Macé may be the signal for transcendent happenings. We must be ready for all eventualities--" The provost did not finish the sentence, seeing the closely cloaked man appear at the door led by Agnes. Marguerite left feeling all the more alarmed, the unfinished words of her husband having recalled to her mind the recent conversation with Petronille Maillart. After the departure of the two women, the stranger, first making certain that the door was closed, removed his cloak and threw it on a chair. The man, extremely small of stature, twenty-five years at the most, and dressed plainly in a buff jacket, was of distinguished and regular features; yet despite the gracefulness of his carriage, the affability of his manners and the almost caressing melody of his voice, there lingered a sardonic and insidious leer in his smile that betrayed the wickedness of his soul and the perversity of his heart. More and more concerned by the man's presence, Marcel seemed to accept his visit as one of those disagreeable duties that men in public life must frequently submit to; nevertheless his icy attitude and his look of suspicion fully revealed the aversion he entertained for his caller, to whom he said: "I did not expect to receive this evening the King of Navarre in my house." Charles the Wicked--that was the man's well deserved nickname--answered with a smile and with his insinuating voice, that most perfidious of all his charms: "Do not kings pay each other mutual visits? What is there surprising in that Charles, King of Navarre, should pay a visit to Marcel, King of the people of Paris? We are sovereigns, both of us." "Sire," answered Marcel impatiently, "please to state the purpose of your visit. What do you wish of me? No useless words!" "You are short of speech." "Shortness is the language of business. Moreover, it is well to measure the words one utters in your presence." "Do you, then, continue to mistrust me?" "Always, more than ever." "I love frankness." "Come, to the point, direct, and without mental reservation." For a moment Charles the Wicked remained silent; then boldly fixing his viper's eyes upon the provost, he answered, slowly weighing each word: