"Cut-throats all," he muttered, and then he laughed a little. "Why, the making carrion of them will bring me thanks. Gaspard Lemasle—he is different. He is ambitious. I must find a place for Gaspard Lemasle where he will easily make enemies. They shall destroy him."
Time passed slowly. The Duke was certainly late.
"Perhaps he refused to come," Felix murmured. "No; Christine would see to that. They cannot have failed; it was so easy a task."
The hours wore on toward dusk—long hours for those in the streets, for those in the castle, for Count Felix. The courtiers wondered and speculated. The Count's face was imperturbable. He had a dozen reasons to give for the delay. He gave them to friend and foe alike. No one hurried along the corridors, there was no need; all that could be done had been done. They could only wait and listen.
Lights were in the castle, and the Count was alone when hurried steps which he expected came to the door. A man entered, a swaggering giant at most times, but now travel-stained, with torn coat, and a streak of dried blood upon his forehead.
"Well, Barbier!" Felix cried, starting from his chair.
"Escaped."
"What!"
"They were ready," said the man. "We must have been betrayed. All fell out as we had planned, but Lemasle, and the Duke, and a priest——"