CHAPTER XXIII.

THE PAVILION OF TREMOUILLE.

When I awoke the next morning, my head was still dazed, but I was otherwise strong. At least, I felt so, as I lay still in my bed, all sense of fatigue gone, and trying to collect my thoughts. After a little, I glanced round the chamber, which was not the room where I had taken the potion, but another and a larger apartment. It was no fancy then, the voices of Jacopo and Bande Nere I heard and the sensation of being lifted and moved, which I experienced in the night. My removal was doubtless effected whilst I was under the influence of the drug; but the voice of madame? The almost certainty that she was by me through the hours of the night? I could not account for this, and seeing any such effort was useless, ceased to rack my brain on the subject, putting it down to a mad dream. For some while I lay mustering up courage to rise, fanned by the mild breeze, which played in from the open window on my right. Outside I could see the branches of the trees, as they swayed to and fro in the wind, and the joyous song of a mavis trilled out sweetly through the morning, from the thorn bushes whence he piped. In about a half hour my head began to grow clearer, I remembered Angiola's letter, and thrust my hand under the pillow to find it. Of course it was not there, as I had been moved, and a short exclamation of annoyance broke from me.

"Excellency!"

It was Jacopo's voice, and the good fellow, who had evidently been watching me, came forward from behind the head of the bed.

"Ah, Jacopo! Is it you? Here, help me to rise."

"Signore--but is your worship able--the chevalier----"

"Never mind the chevalier. I am as well as ever, and there was no need of that to-do yesterday--_diavolo!_" and a twinge in my face brought me up sharply, and recalled Pluto's claws. I put my hand up to my face, and found I was still bandaged.

"It was lucky he only touched your worship."

"Luckier still your being there with your arquebus, else. St. Peter and I had surely shaken hands--there--thanks--I will sit here for a few minutes," and I sank into an easy chair, being really weaker than I thought I was, the effects more of the narcotic than anything else.

"Will your worship breakfast here?"

"No--but before doing anything, go to the room where I was last evening, and bring me the letter you will find under the cushions of the couch there."

"Excellency!" and Jacopo left the room.

I now for the first time observed a bouquet of red and white roses, whose fragrance filled the chamber. I had been conscious of their perfume before, but thought the scent was borne in by the breeze from the garden outside. Whilst I was admiring the flowers, Jacopo returned.

"The letter."

"Is not there, signore, I have searched carefully."

It was a disappointment, but I said nothing, having determined to see for myself. As Jacopo assisted me to dress, I enquired to whom I was indebted for the flowers.

"I cannot say, excellency; they were here when I came this morning. Possibly the Signor de St. Armande, who was with your worship all night."

"All night!"

"Signore."

I could not help being touched by this proof of devotion, and when I had dressed went down, with the intention of finding my letter, and thanking the chevalier for his kindness. I was, I saw, still a little weak, but a few hours' rest would make me fit for action, and I could not help thinking I had been made much over, on too small an occasion. St. Armande was in the room where I had left the letter, and at the first glance I saw he was haggard and worn, with dark circles under his eyes, eyes which many a beauty would have been proud to own. He seemed so slim, so small and delicate, as he came to meet me, that my heart began to misgive me again, as to his powers to endure the labour involved in the difficult adventure we had before us. He was much concerned at my having risen, made many enquiries about my condition, and put aside my thanks.

"_Per Bacco!_ chevalier," I said, "you look more of an invalid than I. I fear me, I shall have to be nurse in my turn."

"It is but a touch of the megrims, I have; but you must not think of doing anything for a week."

"Or a month, or a year," I gibed, as I turned over the cushions of the couch, and in answer to St. Armande's enquiring look, went on, "The