tender cheek, and a fortnight or
so in bed. Conde had once said of him that there was not a more
courageous man in France; but he could not escape recalling Conde's
afterthought: that drink and reckless temper had kept him where he was.
There was in him a vein of madness which often burst forth in a blind
fury. It had come upon him in battle, and he had awakened many a time
to learn that he had been the hero of an exploit. He was not a
boaster; he was not a broken soldier. He was a man whose violent
temper had strewn his path with failures. . . . In love! Silently he
mocked himself. In love, he, the tried veteran, of a hundred
inconstancies! He smiled grimly beneath his mask. He passed on,
stealthily, till he reached a door guarded by two effigies of Francis
I. His sword accidentally touched the metal, and the soft clang
tingled every nerve in his body. He waited. Far away a horse was
galloping over the pavement. He tried the door, and it gave way to his
pressure. He stood in the library of the master of the hotel. In this
very room, while his brain was filled with the fumes of wine and
passion, he had scribbled his name upon crackling parchment on which
were such names as Gaston d'Orleans, Conde, Beaufort, De Longueville,
De Retz. Fool!

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