With the King in residence not even the Captain of the Guard could move
freely through Valmy, but the signet answered all challenges. Every
door, every stair-head was double-sentried, but except for these silent
figures the rooms and passages were alike empty. Loitering for gossip
was not encouraged at Valmy, and least of all in the block which held
the King's lodgings. Only in the outer gallery, where the King took
the air with the pointed windows open to the south for warmth, was
there any suggestion of a court. Here, at the entrance, and remote
from the King alone at the further end, Saint-Pierre and Leslie were in
attendance. Pausing to show the ring for the last time Lessaix
unbuckled his sword, handed it in silence to Saint-Pierre, and passed
on. In Valmy suspicion never slept, never opened its heart in faith to
loyalty, and not even the Captain of the Guard might approach the King
armed.

While he was still some yards distant Louis, gnawing his under lip as
he watched him, suddenly flung out one hand, the palm outward, the
fingers spread, and Lessaix halted.

"Well?" He spoke curtly, harshly, as a man speaks whose temper is worn
to breaking-point.

"A despatch, sire."

"From whom?"

"There is nothing to show----"

"From whom?"

"I do not know, sire."

"Have you no tongue to ask?"

"I asked nothing, sire."

"Um; hold it up." Leaning forward Louis bridged his dim eyes with his
hand, and under the shadow Lessaix saw the thin mouth open and shut
convulsively; but when the hand was lowered the King's face was
expressionless. "What else?"

"Your Majesty's signet."

"Let me see! Let me see! Um; that will do. Put them on the table and
go. Where is the messenger?"

"He left at once."

"Um; were the roads bad from Paris?"

"He did not say, sire; he never opened his lips."

"Silent, was he? Then there is one wise man in France. Thank you,
Captain Lessaix."

With a salute Lessaix retired, but as he buckled on his sword again
Saint-Pierre whispered, "Whence?"

"I don't know," replied Lessaix, also under his breath, "but not from
Paris!"

Left alone Louis sat back in his chair, his thin lips mumbling
nervously at his nails, his eyes fixed on his own handwriting: the
ring, a passport to life or death, he had at once slipped upon his
finger. Every moment he knew he was watched, every action weighed, and
he was a little uncertain how far a judicious self-betrayal would
further his pu