ould
fancy the man crying 'Faster! Faster!' and gnawing his nails in the
impotence of passion; and I shrank back as if I had been struck. The
next moment the outriders splashed me, the coach was a hundred paces
ahead, and I was left chilled and wondering, foreseeing the worst, and
no longer in any mood for Zaton's.

Such a revelation of such a man was enough to appal me, for a moment
conscience cried out that he must have heard that Cocheforet had escaped
him, and through me. But I dismissed the idea as soon as formed. In the
vast meshes of the Cardinal's schemes Cocheforet could be only a small
fish; and to account for the face in the coach I needed a cataclysm, a
catastrophe, a misfortune as far above ordinary mishaps as this man's
intellect rose above the common run of minds.

It was almost dark when I crossed the bridges, and crept despondently to
the Rue Savonnerie. After stabling my horse I took my bag and holsters,
and climbing the stairs to my old landlord's--I remember that the place
had grown, as it seemed to me, strangely mean and small and ill-smelling
in my absence--I knocked at the door. It was promptly opened by the
little tailor himself, who threw up his arms and opened his eyes at
sight of me.

'By Saint Genevieve!' he said, 'if it is not M. de Berault?'

'It is,' I said. It touched me a little, after my lonely journey,
to find him so glad to see me; though I had never done him a greater
benefit than sometimes to unbend with him and borrow his money. 'You
look surprised, little man!' I continued, as he made way for me to
enter. 'I'll be sworn that you have been pawning my goods and letting
my room, you knave!' 'Never, your Excellency!' he answered. 'On the
contrary, I have been expecting you.'

'How?' I said. 'To-day?'

'To-day or to-morrow,' he answered, following me in and closing the
door. 'The first thing I said when I heard the news this morning
was--now we shall have M. de Berault back again. Your Excellency will
pardon the children,' he continued, bobbing round me, as I took the old
seat on the three-legged stool before the hearth. 'The night is cold and
there is no fire in your room.'

While he ran to and fro with my cloak and bags, little Gil, to whom
I had stood at St Sulpice's, borrowing ten crowns the same day, I
remember, came shyly to play with my sword hilt.

'So you expected me back when you heard the news, Frison, did you?' I
said, taking the lad on my knee.

'To be sure, yo