“Faith of a gentleman! Richelieu came here with red spurs, and strange tidings, and they followed on his heels. Perhaps, messieurs, he may have forestalled you,” and he grinned maliciously. Cipierre would have said something, but there came a murmur of voices from behind the curtain, the violet folds slipped softly to one side, and two persons entered the room. It needed no look at the Golden Fleece on his broad breast--he held the Spanish Order--to recognize the Lieutenant-General of the kingdom. His great height, the livid scar of the spear-wound on his left cheek, his air of imperious command, gave no chance for any error--it was the Guise himself. He stopped short in his passage through the room to exchange a few words with Sancerre and the Vicomte, and then, his quick glance penetrating the shadow of the recess into which we had retired, he recognized us--for we had served under him, in the days when he fought for the glory of France--and calling us by name, he greeted us with that princely courtesy which belonged to him alone, and under which he could cloak the deadliest hatred. “Gentlemen,” he said, “you bring back the air of the Spanish war with you. ’Tis like a fresh breeze. Remember, the banner of Guise always has shadow for a good sword.” “Your Highness is most kind,” said Marcilly, and I murmured something under my breath, my eyes fixed on the curtain, near which stood another and more sinister figure. It was the Cardinal of Lorraine. One white hand, upon which flashed the sapphire of a prince of the church, still held the velvet folds of the curtain, against which the scarlet of his robes stood out in rich contrast. He was tall, almost as tall as his brother, and held himself as proudly. He had the same bold, high features, but the sternness on Guise’s lip became cruelty on his, the fire of undaunted courage in the Duke’s glance, for he was brave among the brave, gave place in the churchman to the malign fire that blazes in the eyes of a wolf, and, like the wolf he was pitiless and treacherous. He was learned, eloquent, and witty, but there were strange tales about him--how he was a craven at heart, how in secret he mocked at religion. There were stories of orgies at Bel Esbat, his stately seat, that might have brought a blush to the cheeks of Borgia. There were whispers of hideous crimes, of fits of bitter repentance, followed by reckless outbursts of shameless sin. Of these I know nothing of the truth, save that the tongue of scandal was busy with his name. All that I can think of now is that, as I saw him there, his searching glance striving to read every thought on the faces of the group before him, it came to me to rid France of the vampire who drank her blood; but the Lord spared him then, to be a scourge to his country for many a long year to come.