Here there were still a few people gathered around a scaffold that had been erected in the centre of the square. Around this scaffold was a palisade, and beyond the palisade men were busily at work giving the finishing touches to the wooden galleries that would overlook the coming scene. As we came into the square the block was being placed on the platform, and a short, broadly built man, dressed in black, with a black mask on his face, was superintending the operation. Marcilly and I exchanged glances, but Badehorn for once began to speak: “Ah, messieurs! It is Monsieur of Paris himself. I saw him last when the Comte de Ste. Marie died at Amboise.” “It appears, then, that Monsieur of Paris has an assistant as well,” said a voice which appeared to spring from the ground, as it broke in upon Badehorn’s speech. Looking to my side with a start, I saw a small man dressed in a suit of orange and green satin. A short cloak of the same gay colours hung from his shoulders, while his sceptre, crowned with the head of an ass in gold, and his cap and bells showed his calling. He was staring at Marcilly with his little eyes that flashed and twinkled, from a face as long and sharp as that of a polecat, while his lips, parted in a smile, showed two rows of strong white teeth. He had apparently come out from behind the boardings of one of the galleries, and now stood right in our path, swinging his sceptre backward and forward, with his eyes fixed on Marcilly’s mask. His meaning was obvious, and Jean angrily raised his whip; but the jester skipped back nimbly, and vanished behind the shelter of his boardings with an elfish laugh. “That mask is like to bring you more trouble than profit,” I remarked. “It has served its purpose, however,” said he as he slipped it off and thrust it under the flap of his holster. “Think you, what would have happened if the crowd had raised a shout of ‘Condé!’ in that mood. It was better, after all, to risk the gibes of that jester--confound him--I wonder whose he was?” “It matters not. Perhaps he belongs to the Court; but surely you do not mean to continue to wear the mask while you are in Orleans?” “Not after we are under the wing of the Queen-Mother; but here is Cipierre’s house at last.” As he said this we reined up before the gates of a house, at the corner of a square, overlooking the Rue de la Hallebarde. The house itself stood a little way back from the square, from which it was separated by a courtyard, bounded by a high, spiked wall, in the centre of which was a huge iron-studded gate, flanked on each side by two squat towers with a gallery between, on the face of which, and immediately above the door, was the blazon of Cipierre. The gate was shut, but opened at once to our knock, discovering the flagged court, the wide stairway that led to the house door, and the figures of one or two armed men lounging in the enclosure. The porter, an old man, bent and white-headed, recognized Marcilly at once.