The door shut behind us as noiselessly as it had opened, and we found ourselves in a room lit by tall wax candles, standing in grotesque holders of bronze. On one side was a recess formed by the bay of a window, and facing us was a heavy curtain of violet velvet, starred with the golden lilies of France. A rare tapestry, representing the deeds of La Pucelle, hung on the walls, and the door was covered with a matchless carpet, soft and springy as turf. It was one of the gifts brought back by the Embassy to the Grand Turk. Except for a seat or two, the room was entirely bare of furniture, and at first I thought there was no one in it but ourselves. Another glance, however, showed me the figure of a man with his face partly turned from us. He was standing in the half-light of the recess, holding something over a cresset that hung from its domed roof. He dropped this into the dim flame of the lamp, and, a moment after, the pungent odor of burning aloes filled the room. He did not at first appear to observe us, but the clink of our spurs, or maybe scabbards, arrested his attention, and with a slight start he looked up, and then moved toward us. The collar of the Order was round his neck, the golden shells gleaming against his black velvet pourpoint. It was Cornelius Bentivoglio, Catherine’s chamberlain, and as I saw him advancing, a set smile on his dark features, I thought of that wintertide in Roche Guyon, when Francis of Bourbon was foully murdered by the man who stood smiling before us. I was a boy then, but the story came to us in the far-off Ruergue, and how, too, the bravo had boasted that he had avenged the day of Cerisoles. And now he was a knight of the King’s Order and a noble of the State. In after times we who had also been of the Court knew him well, and I hated and despised him then. I might hate his memory still, but I dare not despise. “Messieurs!” he said, addressing Sancerre and the Vicomte, and speaking with a strong foreign accent, but in good French, “you are welcome. I was just burning a sprig of aloe. ’Tis a specific against the plague, as René will have it, and smells almost as sweetly as a burning Huguenot. _Per Bacco!_ I did not observe you before, messieurs! ’Tis the Comte de Marcilly, and the Sieur de Vibrac, as I live! You have been absent long, gentlemen,” and he showed his white teeth in a treacherous smile. “Monsieur,” said Sancerre coldly, “we have come on an urgent affair--do us the honor to announce the Captain of Orleans, and the Comte de Sancerre.” “_Vent’ bleu!_” the Italian answered, cutting and lisping his words with an affected air, “it would be an honor for me to do so, but”--and he shrugged his shoulders--“her Majesty will not receive. She has been wearied with the day, and ’tis past compline, and besides”--he dropped his voice to a whisper--“Madame is not alone. The Duke and the Cardinal are with her.” “At this hour!”