So he stood for a moment, and then passed slowly out of the room, taking no more notice of us than if we had been flies; but the Duke still lingered, as if he would discover what our business was, and yet dared not compromise his dignity by asking a direct question. Cipierre answered him in short yeas and nays, and Sancerre fenced with him like the skilful courtier he was, and then His Highness changed the conversation, and repeated his offers of service to us. We respectfully declined them for the present, and he said, with that high grave air of his: “Very well, gentlemen! Let it be as you wish, but forget not that the sauce of a Guise is as good as the sauce of a Prince of the blood.” And then, with the hidden meaning of his words in our ears, he left us, tall and stately, a soldier whom we would have followed to the death, but that his sword was red to the hilt with the blood of his country. “_Diavolo!_” said the chamberlain; “Monseigneur is in one of his gracious moods--he meditates a blow.” As he spoke, Cipierre looked him full in the face, saying: “Monsieur--if you please.” There was something in the Vicomte’s tone that could not be denied, and without an answer the Italian passed into the cabinet. He came out again almost at once, saying: “Her Majesty will receive you, gentlemen.” Then he turned on his heel, and betook himself to burning his aloes once more. CHAPTER XIV THE WIDOW OF FRANCE IT was a small room, the curtains at the windows were drawn, and a fire burned brightly in the grate. On the polished oak of the floor, black with age, were scattered rare eastern carpets, low, cushioned seats, carved tables, and cabinets, holding those delicate and elegant trifles a woman loves--strange carvings, crystals of Venice, rare articles of _faience_, caskets, and vases wrought in quaint designs. On the writing-table, a winged Mercury, the work of Benvenuto Cellini, held a lamp which filled the room with its amber light. Near the window was a clavichord, and hard by it was a lute left carelessly on a stool, whilst Nambu, the Queen’s Barbary ape, slept profoundly on the yellow satin cushions covering the window-seat. Here and there were a few books. An illuminated breviary in a golden case, with the arms of France set in brilliants thereon, lay on a _prie-dieu_ made from the wood of the gates of the Holy Sepulchre. Beside this was carelessly flung a fan of marabout feathers, a vinaigrette, and a pair of gloves, while against the wall, overhanging these things, was a large golden cross, on which a Christ writhed in his last agony. On the writing-desk, its pages open, was a volume of “The Prince,” by Machiavel the Florentine. In a cabinet near were some books--the “Odes of Ronsard,” the “Commentaries of Cæsar,” the “Lives of Plutarch,” and, strangely enough, the songs of Clement Marot.