made haste to answer him:

"There are many of us, Monseigneur, who have cause to blush for the
families they spring from--more cause, mayhap, than hath Gaston de
Luynes."

In my words perchance there was no offensive meaning, but in my tone and
in the look which I bent upon the Cardinal there was that which told him
that I alluded to his own obscure and dubious origin. He grew livid, and
for a moment methought he would have struck me: had he done so, then,
indeed, the history of Europe would have been other than it is to-day!
He restrained himself, however, and drawing himself to the full height
of his majestic figure he extended his arm towards the door.

"Go," he said, in a voice that passion rendered hoarse. "Go, Monsieur.
Go quickly, while my clemency endures. Go before I summon the guard and
deal with you as your temerity deserves."

I bowed--not without a taint of mockery, for I cared little what might
follow; then, with head erect and the firm tread of defiance, I stalked
out of his apartment, along the corridor, down the great staircase,
across the courtyard, past the guard,--which, ignorant of my disgrace,
saluted me,--and out into the street.

Then at last my head sank forward on my breast, and deep in thought I
wended my way home, oblivious of all around me, even the chill bite of
the February wind.

In my mind I reviewed my wasted life, with the fleeting pleasures and
the enduring sorrows that it had brought me--or that I had drawn from
it. The Cardinal said no more than truth when he spoke of having saved
me from starvation. A week ago that was indeed what he had done. He
had taken pity on Gaston de Luynes, the nephew of that famous Albert de
Luynes who had been Constable of France in the early days of the late
king's reign; he had made me lieutenant of his guards and maitre d'armes
to his nephews Andrea and Paolo de Mancini because he knew that a better
blade than mine could not be found in France, and because he thought it
well to have such swords as mine about him.

A little week ago life had been replete with fresh promises, the gates
of the road to fame (and perchance fortune) had been opened to me anew,
and now--before I had fairly passed that gate I had been thrust rudely
back, and it had been slammed in my face because it pleased a fool to
become a sot whilst in my company.

There is a subtle poetry in the contemplation of ruin. With ruin itself,
howbeit, there comes a prosaic dispelling of