They were men, the marquis and his contemporaries. They were born in
rough times, they lived and died roughly. They were men who made
France what it was in life and is to-day in history, resplendent. The
marquis never went about his affairs impetuously; he calculated this
and balanced that. When he arrived at a conclusion or formed a
purpose, it was definite. He never swerved nor retreated. To-night he
had formed a purpose, and he proceeded toward it directly, as was his
custom.
"Jehan, my campaign rapier," he said.
"Campaign rapier, Monsieur!" repeated the astonished lackey. Monsieur
le Marquis had not worn that weapon in almost ten years.
"Take care, Jehan; you know that I am not particularly fond of
repeating commands. Certainly my old basket-hilt took the journey with
me."
Jehan went rummaging among his master's personal effects, and soon
returned. He buckled on the marquis's shoulder a worn baldric pendent
to which was the famous basket-sword which had earned for its owner the
sobriquet of "Prince of a hundred duels."
"It has grown heavy since the last time I put it on," observed the
marquis, thoughtfully, weighing the blade on his palms. "Those were
merry days," reminiscently.
"Monsieur goes abroad to-night?" essayed the lackey, experiencing an
old-time thrill.
"Yes, but alone. Now, a cup of wine undiluted. Monsieur de Leviston
is still in the hospital?"
"Yes, Monsieur."
"Through the kindly offices of Monsieur de Saumaise."
"Who is a gallant fellow."
To this Monsieur le Marquis readily agreed. "But Monsieur d'Hérouville
is no longer confined. I saw him abroad this afternoon."
"They say that he is a furious swordsman, Monsieur," ventured Jehan,
trembling.
The marquis threw a keen glance at his servant. "What did they say of
me, even ten years ago?"
"You had no peer in all France, Monsieur . . . ten years ago."
The marquis smiled. "I have grown thin in ten years, that is all."
"Shall you leave any commands, Monsieur?"
"You may have the evening to yourself, and don't return till midnight."
Jehan bowed. There was nothing for him to say.
At dinner the marquis was unusually brilliant and witty. He dazzled
the governor and his ladies, and unbent so far as to accept four
glasses of burgundy. On one side sat Anne de Vaudemont, on the other
the governor's son, and directly opposite, Madame de Brissac, an
unnamed mystery to them all save Anne. Madame, despite her antagonism
and the terror lest she be discovered and unmasked by those remarkable
grey eyes, found herself irresistibly drawn toward and fascinated by
this remarkable exponent of a past epoch. She forgot the stories she
had heard regarding his past, she forgot the sinister shadow he had
cast over her own life, she forgot all save that without such men as
this there would and could be no history. And she was quite ignorant
of the fact that her scrutiny was being returned in kind.