ed a handsome room, hung
in costly Dutch tapestry, and richly furnished, yet with a sobriety of
colour almost puritanical. The long windows overlooked a broad terrace,
enclosed in a grey stone balustrade, from which some half-dozen steps
led to a garden below. Beyond that ran the swift waters of the Loire,
and beyond that again, in the distance, we beheld the famous Chateau de
Chambord, built in the days of the first Francis.

I had but remarked these details when the door again opened, to admit
a short, slender man in whose black hair and beard the hand of time had
scattered but little of that white dust that marks its passage. His face
was pale, thin, and wrinkled, and his grey eyes had a nervous, restless
look that dwelt not long on anything. He was dressed in black, with
simple elegance, and his deep collar and ruffles were of the finest
point.

"Welcome to Canaples, M. de Mancini!" he exclaimed, as he hurried
forward, with a smile so winning that his countenance appeared
transfigured by it. "Welcome most cordially! We had not hoped that you
would arrive so soon, but fortunately my daughters, to whom you appear
to have been of service at Choisy, warned me that you were journeying
hither. Your apartments, therefore, are prepared for you, and we hope
that you will honour Canaples by long remaining its guest."

Andrea thanked him becomingly.

"In truth," he added, "my departure from Paris was somewhat sudden,
but I have a letter here from Monseigneur my uncle, which explains the
matter."

"No explanation is needed, my dear Andrea," replied the old nobleman,
abandoning the formalities that had marked his welcoming speech. "How
left you my Lord Cardinal?" he asked, as he took the letter.

"In excellent health, but somewhat harassed, I fear, by the affairs of
State."

"Ah, yes, yes. But stay. You are not alone." And Canaples's grey eyes
shot an almost furtive glance of inquiry in my direction. A second
glance followed the first and the Chevalier's brows were knit. Then he
came a step nearer, scanning my face.

"Surely, surely, Monsieur," he exclaimed before Andrea had time to
answer him. "Were you not at Rocroi?"

"Your memory flatters me, Monsieur," I replied with a laugh. "I was
indeed at Rocroi--captain in the regiment of chevaux-legers whereof you
were Mestre de Champ."

"His name," said Andrea, "is Gaston de Luynes, my very dear friend,
counsellor, and, I might almost say, protector."

"Pardieu, yes! G