"Out of the way, then, curse you!"

Before the astonished priest, who was a young man, could rise from the

pavement where the impact had sent him sprawling, the assailant had

disappeared in the alley. He gained the door of the low tavern, flung

it open, pushed by every one, upsetting several, all the while the

bloody rapier in one hand and the mask held in place by the other. The

astonished inmates of the tavern saw him leap like a huge bird and

vanish through one of the windows, carrying the sash with him. But a

nail caught the grey cloak, and it fluttered back to the floor. Scarce

a moment had passed when the pursuers crowded in. When questioned, the

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stupefied host could only point toward the splintered window frame.

Through this the men scrambled, and presently their yells died away in

the distance.

A young man of ruddy countenance, his body clothed in the garments of a

gentleman's lackey, stooped and gathered up the cloak.

"Holy Virgin!" he murmured, his eyes bulging, "there can not be two

cloaks like this in Paris; it's the very same."

He crushed it under his arm and in the general confusion gained the

alley, took to his legs, and became a moving black shadow in the grey.

He made off toward the Seine.

Meanwhile terror stalked in the corridors of the hôtel. Lights flashed

from window to window. The court was full of servants and mercenaries.

For the master lay dead in the corridor above. A beautiful young

woman, dressed in her night-robes, her feet in slippers, hair

disordered and her eyes fixed with horror, gazed down at the lifeless

shape. The stupor of sleep still held her in its dulling grasp. She

could not fully comprehend the tragedy. Her ladies wailed about her,

but she heeded them not. It was only when the captain of the military

household approached her that she became fully aroused. She pressed

her hand against her madly beating heart.

"Who did this?" she asked.

"A man in a mask, Madame," replied the captain, kneeling. He gently

loosed the sword from the stiffening fingers. The master of

twenty-five years was gone.

"In a mask?"

"Yes, Madame."

"And the motive ?"

"Not robbery, since nothing is disturbed about the hôtel save in

monsieur's library. The drawers have all been pulled out."

With a sharp cry she crossed the corridor and entered the library. The

open drawers spoke dumbly but surely.

"Gone!" she whispered. "We are all lost! He was fortunate in dying."

Terror and fright vanished from her face and her eyes, leaving the one

impassive and the other cold. She returned to the body and the look

she cast on it was without pity or regret. Alive, she had detested

him; dead, she could gaze on him with indifference. He had died,

leaving her the legacy of the headsman's ax. And his play-woman? would

she weep or laugh? . . . She was free. It came quickly and penetrated

like a dry wine: she was free. Four odious years might easily be

forgiven if not forgotten. "Take him to his room," she said softly.

After all, he had died gallantly.




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