As the cardinal approached, the young man drew a letter from his vest, and presented it with a low bow.
D'Amboise tore it open and glanced over the contents. "_Diable!_" he exclaimed, "from Madame de la Tremouille herself. See here, Bayard, the Duchess writes, introducing her friend the Chevalier St. Armande--I know not the house."
The voice was singularly sweet and soft, and a strange and undefinable resemblance in its tones to some other voice I had heard struck me, but I could not fix upon anything.
"The Duchess says you are anxious to serve; would it not have been easier to send you to the Duke?"
St. Armande looked round with a heightened colour, and then replied, speaking in the same low, soft tones:
"If your eminence will kindly read the letter, you will perceive that my desire was to see something of the court of Rome before joining the duke."
D'Amboise glanced at the letter again, and an odd smile passed over his face.
"I see," he added, "the postscript--My dear Chevalier, Madame de la Tremouille's requests are commands to me. If you will do me the honour of joining my suite, I shall be delighted. Permit me to introduce you to the Cavaliere Donati, who is also a new friend."
I bowed and extended my hand, and St. Armande placed his within mine. It was small and delicate as a woman's, and as I clasped it for a moment, it felt as chill and cold as death.
The levée lasted some little time, as D'Amboise, who was studious of the arts of gaining popularity, listened with apparent interest to any one who chose to address him, and seemed to possess a wonderful memory for even the most trifling details. This was, in fact, an informal reception, which the cardinal, both as a prince of the Church, and the representative of France at the Papal Court, held daily, and hither came all the lesser members of the French party in Rome, and all those who hoped to gain something from the prelate by the simple process of asking; for D'Amboise was known to be generous and free, despite an occasional testiness of manner, such as he had exhibited to Corte, and shown in the first instance to St. Armande.
Corte I spoke to no more that day; but I saw him, where he had retreated to the extreme end of the room, his book under his arm, evidently waiting to make his exit. St. Armande took his place beside me, his companion, the abbé, dropping into the rear. Once he, St. Armande, hazarded a remark, which I did not catch, and therefore did not answer. In truth, I was in no mood for speaking, my mind being full of my eventful interview with the cardinal and Bayard, and I was more than grateful for the happy chance that had enabled me to draw my sword in aid of the secretary Machiavelli. I thought too of Madame D'Entrangues, and of what she had done in my behalf, and would have given much to have thanked her for her efforts, fruitless although they apparently were. But what struck me most of all was the fact, that whilst in my misery at Florence I was upbraiding fate, and all but cursing God, friends were at work, trying to help and aid me, and this taught me a lesson.