Grinning from the high shelves were the Greek masks, Comedy and

Tragedy. The light from the candle gave a sickly human tint to the

marble. He closed the door.

"Now for the drawer which holds my head; of love, anon!"

He knelt, placing the candle on the book-ledge. Along the bottom of

the shelves ran a series of drawers. These he opened without sound,

searching for secret bottoms. Drawer after drawer yawned into his

face, and his heart sank. What he sought was not to be found. The

last drawer would not open. With infinite care and toil he succeeded

in prying the lock with the point of his sword, and his spirits rose.

The papers in this drawer were of no use to any one but the owner. The

man in the grey cloak cursed under his breath and a thrill of rage ran

through him. He was about to give up in despair when he saw a small

knob protruding from the back panel of the drawer. Eagerly he touched

the knob, and a little drawer slid forth.

"Mine!" With trembling fingers he unfolded the parchment. He held it

close to the candle and scanned each signature. There was his own,

somewhat shaky, but nevertheless his own. . . . He brushed his eyes,

as if cobwebs of doubt had suddenly gathered there. Her signature!

Hers! "Roses of Venus, she is mine, mine!" He pressed his lips to the

inken line. Fortune indeed favored him . . . or was it the devil?

Hers! She was his; here was a sword to bend that proud neck. Ten

thousand livres? There was more than that, more than that by a hundred

times. Passion first, or avarice; love or greed? He would decide that

question later. He slipped the paper into the pocket of the cloak.

Curiosity drew him toward the drawer again. There was an old

commission in the musketeers, signed by Louis XIII; letters from Madame

de Longueville; an unsigned lettre-de-cachet; an accounting of the

revenues of the various chateaus; and a long envelope, yellow with age.

He picked it out of the drawer and blew away the dust. He read the

almost faded address, and his jaw fell. . . . "To Monsieur le Marquis

de Périgny, to be delivered into his hands at my death."

He was not conscious how long a time he stared at that address. Age

had unsealed the envelope, and the man in the grey cloak drew out the

contents. It was in Latin, and with some difficulty he translated it.

. . . So rapt was he over what he read, so nearly in a dream he knelt

there, that neither the sound of a horse entering the court nor the

stir of activity in the armory held forth a menace.

"Good God, what a revenge!" he murmured. "What a revenge!"




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