ghtened. "Why, Monseigneur,
the grey cloak . . ." He stopped. Victor de Saumaise, his friend, his
comrade in arms, Victor the gay and careless, who was without any
influence save that which his cheeriness and honesty and wit gave him!
Victor the poet, the fashionable Villon, with his ballade, his rondeau,
his triolet, his chant-royal!--Victor, who had put his own breast
before his at Lens! The Chevalier regained his composure, he saw his
way clearly, and said quietly: "I have not worn my grey cloak since the
king's party at Louvre. I can only repeat that I was not in Paris last
night. I slept at the Pineapple at Fontainebleau. Having no money, I
pawned my ring for a night's lodging. If you will send some gentleman
to make inquiries, the truth of my statement will be verified." There
was now no wrath in the Chevalier's voice; but there was a quality of
resignation in it which struck the acute ear of the cardinal and caused
him to raise his penciled brows.

"Monsieur, you are hiding something," he said quickly, even shrewdly.

"I?"

"You, Monsieur. I believe that you slept in Fontainebleau. But who
wore your grey cloak?"

"I can not say truthfully because I do not know."

"Take care!"

"I do not know who wore my cloak."

"A while back you said something about truth. You are not telling it
now. I will know who killed De Brissac, an honored and respected
gentleman, whatever his political opinions may have been in the past.
It was an encounter under questionable circumstances. The edict reads
that whosoever shall be found guilty of killing in a personal quarrel
shall be subject to imprisonment or death. The name of the man who
wore your cloak, or I shall hold you culpable and punish you in his
stead."

The Chevalier stooped and recovered his hat, but he did not touch the
sword.

"It is impossible for me to tell you, Monseigneur. I do not know. The
cloak may have been stolen and worn by some one I never saw."

"To whom did you lend the cloak?"

"To tell that might bring another innocent man under a cloud. Besides,
I have been absent thirty days; that is a long time to remember so
trivial a thing."

"Which is to say that you refuse to tell me?" not without some
admiration.

"It is," quietly.

"Your exoneration for the name, Chevalier. The alternative is your
resignation from the Guards and your exile."

Exile from Paris was death to the courtier; but the Chevalier was more
than a courti