"Nothing of the sort. Nothing was missing from the Hôtel de Brissac.

The Chevalier is rich."

"The Chevalier? I tell you that the association is impossible. In the

first place . . . It is of no matter," biting her lips. "I know."

"Ventre Saint Gris! as my grandfather used to say, there is but one

grey cloak lined with purple satin, but one square velvet collar, a

fashion which the Chevalier invented himself. Three persons saw and

recognized the cloak. If the Chevalier returns, it is the Bastille and

forgetfulness. Mazarin is becoming as strict as those pot-hat Puritans

yonder in England. He might possibly overlook a duel in the open; but

to enter a man's house by the window . . . What more is there to be

said? And all this recalls what my father used to say. De Brissac and

the Marquis de Périgny were deadly enemies. It seems that De Brissac

had one love affair; Madame la Marquise while she was a Savoy princess.

She loved the marquis, and he married her because De Brissac wanted

her. But De Brissac evidently never had his revenge."

Madame felt that she could no longer sustain the conversation. In her

own mind she was positive that her daughter and the son of her old

flame had never met. A man does not fall in love with a woman after he

refuses to look at her; and the Chevalier had refused to look at

Gabrielle. Why? Her mind was not subtile enough to pierce the veil.

A lackey approached Beaufort.

"I was directed to give this note to your Highness." The lackey bowed

profoundly and retired.

Beaufort opened the note, scanned the lines, and grew deadly pale.

What he read was this: "Monsieur le Comte's private papers are missing,

taken by his assailant, who entered the hôtel for that purpose. Be

careful." The note was unsigned.

At this moment Bernouin approached Mazarin and whispered something in

his ear.

"Impossible!" cried the cardinal.

"It is true, nevertheless," replied the valet. "He is in the anteroom."

"The fellow is a fool! Does he think to brazen it out? I shall make

an example of him. De Meilleraye, take my cards, and if you lose more

than ten louis! . . . Ladies, an affair of state," and Mazarin rose

and limped into the adjoining cabinet. "Bring him into this room," he

said to the valet. He then stationed two gentlemen of the musketeers

behind his chair, sat down and waited, a grimace of pain twisting his

lips.

Meanwhile the Chevalier entered the gallery, following Bernouin. His

face wore a puzzled, troubled expression. All this ado somewhat

confused him.

"He is handsome," said Madame de Montbazon; "handsomer than ever his

father was."

"He is more than handsome," said Beaufort, whose astonishment was

genuine; "he is brave. What the devil brings him here into the wolf's

maw?"




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