"The supposition, does not balance. She knows no more than you or I."

"And Monsieur le Comte's play-woman?"

"Horns of Panurge!" excitedly. "You have struck a new note, Vicomte.

I recollect hearing that she was confined in some one of the city

prisons. The sooner the Saint Laurent sails, the better."

"Would that some one we knew would romp into town from Paris. He might

have news." The vicomte bit the ends of his mustache.

The opening of the tavern door cut short their conversation. A man

entered rudely. He pressed and jostled every one in his efforts to

reach Maître le Borgne. He was a man of splendid physical presence.

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His garments, though soiled and bedraggled by rough riding, were costly

and rich. His spurs were bloody; and the dullness of the blood and the

brightness of the steel were again presented in his fierce eyes. The

face was not pleasing; it was too squarely hewn, too emotional; it

indexed the heart too readily, its passions, its loves and its hates.

There was cunning in the lips and caution in the brow; but the face was

too mutable.

"The Comte d'Hérouville!" exclaimed the vicomte. "Saumaise, this looks

bad. He is not a man to run away like you and me."

The new-comer spoke to the innkeeper, who raised his index finger and

leveled it at Victor and the vicomte. On seeing them, D'Hérouville

came over quickly.

"Messieurs," he began, "I am gratified to find you."

"The news!" cried the poet and the gamester.

"Devilish bad, Monsieur, for every one. The paper . . ."

"It is not here," interrupted the vicomte.

The count swore. "Mazarin has mentioned your name, Saumaise. You were

a frequent visitor to the Hôtel de Brissac. As for me, I swore to a

lie; but am yet under suspicion. Has either of you seen Madame de

Brissac? I have traced her as far as Rochelle."

The vicomte looked humorously at the poet. Victor scowled. Of the two

men he abhorred D'Hérouville the more. As for the vicomte, he laughed.

"You laugh, Monsieur?" said D'Hérouville, coldly. His voice was not

unpleasant.

"Why, yes," replied the vicomte. "Has Mazarin published an edict

forbidding a man to move his diaphragm? You know nothing about the

paper, then?"

"Madame de Brissac knows where it is," was the startling declaration.

"I ask you again, Messieurs, have you seen her?"

"She is in Rochelle," said the vicomte. How many men, he wondered, had

been trapped, by madame's eyes?

"Where is she?" eagerly.

"He lies!" thought Victor. "He knows madame has no paper."

"Where she is just now I do not know."

"She is to sail for Quebec at one o'clock," said the poet.

There was admiration in the vicomte's glance. To send the count on a

wild-goose chase to Quebec while madame sauntered leisurely toward

Spain! It was a brilliant stroke, indeed.




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