“It was he,” I answered; “I saw him distinctly. He was close to my nag’s head. You heard what he said?” “That the Prince would not die on the 10th.” “Yes.” “Well, what do you think of it?” “What can I think? If the fool belongs to the Court, he may have heard some gossip, and took the opportunity to repeat what he knew. If, on the other hand, it is one of those vain winds that whistle through the head of folly----” “Excellencies, we stop here,” said the Swiss; “this is the Comte de Sancerre’s house.” We rode into the courtyard, and dismounting, gave our horses to the lackeys who came to meet us. As we ascended the stairway Marcilly remarked: “This is the house that Agnes Sorel lived in. It came to Sancerre with his wife, and old de Beuil has lived here since her death. Though of the first nobility, and a faithful servant of the King, he is now never seen in Paris. He went out as the Guise came in.” “I confess I am curious to meet him--the one peer of France, the one knight of the King’s Order, who refused in full Council to sign the death-warrant of the Prince.” “Hum! I don’t know that the King’s Order is much of an honor now, though you and I both hold it. They have given it to every Italian bravo, or sneaking Lorrainer that can boast of having a grandfather--truly, Tiercelin said well when he called it the Collar of all the Beasts.” As he spoke we were shown into a small room, where, close to the fireplace, covers were laid for four. There was no one in the room when we entered, and while Marcilly sank wearily on to a seat, I leaned against the window, now watching the gray night outside, and the dim twinkling of the lamps in the city, then turning my eyes in idle curiosity, on the quaint tapestry and old arms with which the walls were hung. We had not, however, to wait above a few minutes. Then we heard voices in eager converse, the door opened, and Sancerre and the Captain of Orleans entered with a warm welcome and excuses for keeping us waiting. Louis de Beuil, Comte de Sancerre, was at that time nearly seventy years of age. In person he was tall and thin, with a pale face, bright blue eyes, and a white beard that fell half-way down his chest. He was dressed in black, and walked with a slight stoop. Cipierre, on the other hand, though he counted as many years as Sancerre, was in marked contrast to him. I can picture him now standing before me, a gray old wolf, with his square jaw, short, bristling moustache, and closely cut beard. “Monsieur de Vibrac,” said Sancerre, as he shook me by the hand, “believe me, I welcome you here; but you come to a city which ought to be in sackcloth.” Cipierre tugged at his moustache, and glanced from Marcilly to me, as he cut in, with a short laugh: “Ste. Croix! If I did my duty, nephew, both you and monsieur here ought to be on your way to the Hôtel de Ville. What grasshopper did you get into your head, to put yourself into the lion’s jaws as you have?”