howing that there was a silver lining to his
cloud of danger.

For just a moment madame's brows were knitted. She had forgotten
Rabecque until now; but an instant's reflection assured her that in
forgetting him she had done him no more than such honour as he deserved.
She laughed, as she led the way down the garden steps--the mildness of
the day and the brightness of her mood had moved her there to receive
the Seneschal.

"From the sombreness of your tone one might fear your news to be of the
nature of some catastrophe. What shall it signify that Rabecque eludes
your men? He is but a lackey after all."

"True," said the Seneschal, very soberly; "but do not forget, I beg,
that he is the bearer of letters from one who is not a lackey."

The laughter went out of her face at that. Here was something that had
been lost sight of in the all-absorbing joy of other things. In calling
the forgotten Rabecque to mind she had but imagined that it was no more
than a matter of the tale he might tell--a tale not difficult to refute,
she thought. Her word should always weigh against a lackey's. But that
letter was a vastly different matter.

"He must be found, Tressan," she said sharply.

Tressan smiled uneasily, and chewed at his beard.

"No effort shall be spared," he promised her. "Of that you may be very
sure. The affairs of the province are at a standstill," he added, that
vanity of his for appearing a man of infinite business rising even in
an hour of such anxiety, for to himself, no less than to her, was
there danger should Rabecque ever reach his destination with the papers
Garnache had said he carried.

"The affairs of the province are at a standstill," he repeated, "while
all my energies are bent upon this quest. Should we fail to have news of
his capture in Dauphiny, we need not, nevertheless, despond. I have
sent men after him along the three roads that lead to Paris. They are to
spare neither money nor horses in picking up his trail and effecting his
capture. After all, I think we shall have him."

"He is our only danger now," the Marquise answered, "for Florimond is
dead--of the fever," she added, with a sneering smile which gave Tressan
sensations as of cold water on his spine. "It were an irony of fate if
that miserable lackey were to reach Paris now and spoil the triumph for
which we have worked so hard."

"It were, indeed," Tressan agreed with her, "and we must see that he
does not."

"But if he does," sh