pointed at five to eight.  Oddly enough there came to the Chevalier a transitory picture of a young Jesuit priest, winding through the bleak hills on the way to Rouen.  The glories of the world, the love of women?  What romance lay smoldering beneath that black cassock?  What secret grief?  What sin?  Brother Jacques?  The name signified nothing.  Like all courtiers of his time, the Chevalier entertained the belief that when a handsome youth took the orders it was in the effort to bury some grief rather than to assist in the alleviation of the sorrows of mankind.

He walked on, skirting the Louvre and presently entering the courtyard of the Palais Royal.  The number of flambeaux, carriages and caleches indicated to him that Mazarin was giving a party.  He lifted his cloak from his shoulders, shook it, and threw it over his arm, and ascended the broad staircase, his heart beating swiftly.  Would he see her?  Would she be in the gallery?  Would this night dispel the mystery?  At the first landing he ran almost into Captain de Guitaut, who was descending.

“Cevennes?” cried the captain, frankly astounded.

“And freshly from Rome, my Captain.  His Eminence is giving a party?”

“Are you weary of life, Monsieur?” asked the captain.  “What are you doing here?  I had supposed you to be a man of sense, and on the way to Spain.  And my word of honor, you stick your head down the lion’s mouth!  Follow your nose, follow your nose; it is none of my affair.”  And the gruff old captain passed on down the stairs.

The Chevalier stared after him in bewilderment.  Spain? . . .  Weary of life?  What had happened?

“Monsieur du Cevennes?” cried a thin voice at his elbow.

The Chevalier turned and beheld Bernouin, the cardinal’s valet.

“Ah!” said the Chevalier.  Here was a man to explain the captain’s riddle.  “Will you announce to his Eminence that I have returned from Rome, and also explain why you are looking at me with such bulging eyes?  Am I a ghost?” The Chevalier, being rich, was one of the few who were never overawed by the grandeur of Mazarin’s valet.  “What is the matter?”

“Matter?” repeated the valet.  “Matter?  Nothing, Monsieur, nothing!” quickly.  “I will this instant announce your return to monseigneur.”

“One would think 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.