But what warmed the Chevalier's heart, even as the water warmed his

body, was the thought of that adorable mystery, that tantalizing,

haunting mystery, the woman unknown. This very room was made precious

by the fact that its air had once embraced her with a familiarity such

as he had never dared assume. What a night that had been! She had

come, masked; she had dined; at his protestations of love she had

laughed, as one laughs who hears a droll story; and in the attempt to

put his arm around her waist, the cold light flashing from her

half-hidden eyes had stilled and abashed him. Why did she hold him,

yet repel? What was her object? Was she some princess who had been

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hidden away during her girlhood, to appear only when the bud opened

into womanhood, rich, glorious, and warm? Like a sunbeam, like a

shadow, she flitted through the corridors and galleries of the Louvre

and the Palais Royal, and whenever he had sought to point her out to

some one, to discover her name, lo, she was gone! Tormenting mystery!

Ah, that soft lisp of hers, those enchanting caprices, those amazing

extravagances of fancy, that wit which possessed the sparkle of white

chambertin! He would never forget that summer night when, dressed as a

boy, she had gone with him swashbuckling along the quays. And for all

these meetings, for all her supplicating or imperious notes, what had

been his reward? To kiss her hand when she came, to kiss her hand when

she went, and all the while her lips burned like a cardinal poppy and

her eyes lured like those phantom lakes of the desert. True, he had

often kissed her perfumed tresses without her knowledge; but what was

that? Why had he never taken by force that which entreaty did not win?

Love. Man never uses force where he loves. When would the day come

when the hedge of mystery inclosing her would be leveled? "Love you,

Monsieur?" she had said. "Ah, well, in a way!"

The Chevalier smiled. Yes, it was fine to be young, and rich, and in

love. He recalled their first meeting. He had been placed on guard at

the entrance to the grand gallery at the Palais Royal, where Mazarin

was giving a mask. Presently a slender, elegant youth in the garb of a

grey musketeer approached.

"Your name, Monsieur, if you please," he said, scanning the list of

invited guests.

"I am one of those who pass without the interrogatory." The voice was

hoarse, affectedly so; and this roused the Chevalier's suspicions.

"I can not believe that," he laughed, "since Monsieur le Duc, his

Majesty's brother, was good enough to permit me to question him." He

leaned against the wall, smiling and twisting his mustache. What a

charming musketeer!




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