ink that I had been trying to run away," mused the
Chevalier, following the valet.

Meanwhile a lackey dressed in no particular livery entered the Hotel of
the Silver Candlestick and inquired for Monsieur Breton, lackey to
Monsieur le Chevalier du Cevennes. He was directed to the floor above.
On hearing a knock, Breton hastily closed the book he was reading and
went to the door. The hallway was so dark that he could distinguish no
feature of his caller.

"Monsieur Breton?" the strange lackey inquired,

"Are you seeking me?" Breton asked diplomatically.

"I was directed to deliver this to you. It is for your master," and
the stranger placed a bundle in Breton's hands. Immediately he turned
and disappeared down the stairs. Evidently he desired not to be
questioned.

Breton surveyed the bundle doubtfully, turned it this way and that. On
opening it he was greatly surprised to find his master's celebrated
grey cloak. He examined it. It was soiled and rent in several places.
Breton hung it up in the closet, shaking his head.

"This is very irregular," he muttered. "Monsieur de Saumaise would
never have returned it in this condition; besides, Hector would have
been the messenger. What will Monsieur Paul say when he sees it?"

And, knowing that he had no cause to worry, and having not the
slightest warning that his master's liberty was in danger, Breton
reseated himself by the candles and continued his indulgence in stolen
sweets; that is to say, he renewed the adventures of that remarkable
offspring of Gargantua.

CHAPTER IV

AN AENEAS FOR AN ACHATES

In the grand gallery of the Palais Royal stood a mahogany table, the
bellying legs of which, decorated with Venetian-wrought gold, sparkled
and glittered in the light of the flames that rose and fell in the
gaping chimney-place. Around this table were seated four persons of
note: the aging Marechal de Villeroi, Madame de Motteville of
imperishable memoirs, Anne of Austria, and Cardinal Mazarin. The
Italian, having won a pile of golden louis from the soldier, was
smiling amiably and building yellow pyramids, forgetful for the time
being of his gouty foot which dozed on a cushion under the table. This
astute politician was still a handsome man, but the Fronde and the
turbulent nobility had left their imprint. There were many lines
wrinkling the circle of his eyes, and the brilliant color on his cheeks
was the effect of rouge and fever.

The quee