“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!

“What!” haughtily, “you parley with me?” A gauntleted hand flew to a jeweled hilt.

“Monsieur will not be so rude?” mockingly.

“Monsieur!” with a stamp of the foot—­a charming foot.

“Monsieur!” he mimicked, also stamping a foot which, though shapely, was scarce charming.

Then through the curtain of the mask there came a low, rollicking laugh.  The hand fell away from the sword-hilt, and a grey gauntlet slipped to the floor, discovering a hand as dazzling white and begemmed as that on which Anne of Austria prided herself.

“Death of my life!” said a voice as soft and musical as the vibration of a bell, “you make an admirable Cerberus.  My gauntlet.”  The sweep of the hand fascinated him.  “Are your ears like the sailors’ of Ulysses, filled with wax?  I am asking you to pick up my gauntlet.”

As he stooped to obey the command, a laugh sounded behind him, and he knew that he had been tricked.  The little musketeer had vanished.  For a moment he was disturbed.  In vain he searched the gauntlet for some distinguishing sign.  But as reason told him that no harm could possibly come from the prank, his fears subsided, and he laughed.  On being relieved from duty, later, he sought her, to return the gauntlet.  She was talking to Mademoiselle de Longueville.  As she saw the Chevalier, she moved away.  The Chevalier, determined on seeing the adventure to its end, followed her deliberately.  She sat in a window-seat.  Without ceremony he sat down beside her.

“Monsieur,” he said, smiling, and he was very handsome when he smiled, “permit me to return this gauntlet.”

She folded her arms, and this movement of her shoulders told him that she was laughing silently.

“Are you madame or mademoiselle?” he asked, eagerly.

She raised her mask for an instant, and his subjugation was complete.  The conversation which ensued was so piquant and charming that thereafter whatever warmth the gauntlet knew was gathered not from her hand but from the Chevalier’s heart.

The growing chill in the water brought the Chevalier out of his reverie.  He leaped from the tub and shone rosily in the firelight, as elegantly proportioned a youth as ever was that fabulous Leander of the Hellespont.

“Bring me those towels I purchased from the wandering Persian.  I regret that I did not have them blessed by his Holiness.  For who knows what spell the heretic Saracen may have cast over them?”

“Monsieur knows,” said Breton piously, “that I have had them sprinkled with the blessed water.”