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smiled. Mademoiselle averted her eyes, and shivered; as if the air, even of that close summer night, entering by the door at her elbow, chilled her. And then came a welcome interruption.

“Tavannes!”

“Sire!”

Count Hannibal rose slowly. The King had called, and he had no choice but to obey and go. Yet he hung a last moment over his companion, his hateful breath stirring her hair.

“Our pleasure is cut short too soon, Mademoiselle,” he said, in the tone, and with the look, she loathed. “But for a few hours only. We shall meet to-morrow. Or, it may be—earlier.”

She did not answer, and “Tavannes!” the King repeated with violence. “Tavannes! Mordieu!” his Majesty continued, looking round furiously. “Will no one fetch him? Sacré nom, am I King, or a dog of a”

“I come, sire!” the Count cried hastily. For Charles, King of France, Ninth of the name, was none of the most