"Umph!"
"However," Count Hannibal continued, with an airy gesture, "that is my
affair. If you, M. de Montsoreau, feel inclined, in spite of the absence
of my letters, to carry yours into effect, by all means do so--after
midnight of to-day."
M. de Montsoreau breathed hard. "And why," he asked, half sulkily and
half ponderously, "after midnight only, M. le Comte?"
"Merely that I may be clear of all suspicion of having lot or part in the
matter," Count Hannibal answered pleasantly. "After midnight of to-night
by all means do as you please. Until midnight, by your leave, we will be
quiet."
The Lieutenant-Governor moved doubtfully in his chair, the fear--which
Tavannes had shrewdly instilled into his mind--that he might be disowned
if he carried out his instructions, struggling with his avarice and his
self-importance. He was rather crafty than bold; and such things had
been, he knew. Little by little, and while he sat gloomily debating, the
notion of dealing with one or two and holding the body of the Huguenots
to ransom--a notion which, in spite of everything, was to bear good fruit
for Angers--began to form in his mind. The plan suited him: it left him
free to face either way, and it would fill his pockets more genteelly
than would open robbery. On the other hand, he would offend his brother
and the fanatical party, with whom he commonly acted. They were looking
to see him assert himself. They were looking to hear him declare
himself. And-Harshly Count Hannibal's voice broke in on his thoughts; harshly, a
something sinister in its tone.
"Where is your brother?" he said. And it was evident that he had not
noted his absence until then. "My lord's Vicar of all people should be
here!" he continued, leaning forward and looking round the table. His
brow was stormy.
Lescot squirmed under his eye; Thuriot turned pale and trembled. It was
one of the canons of St.-Maurice, who at length took on himself to
answer.
"His lordship requested, M. le Comte," he ventured, "that you would
excuse him. His duties--"
"Is he ill?"
"He--"
"Is he ill, sirrah?" Tavannes roared. And while all bowed before the
lightning of his eye, no man at the table knew what had roused the sudden
tempest. But Bigot knew, who stood by the door, and whose ear, keen as
his master's, had caught the distant report of a musket shot. "If he be
not ill," Tavannes continued, rising and looking round the table in
search of signs of guilt, "and there be foul play here, and he the
player, the Bishop's own hand shall not save him! By Heaven it shall
not! Nor yours!" he continued, looking fiercely at Montsoreau. "Nor
your master's!"
The Lieutenant-Governor sprang to his feet. "M. le Comte," he stammered,
"I do not understand this language! Nor this heat, which may be real or
not! All I say is, if there be foul play here--"