“Messieurs,” said Breton, “your eyes deceived you.  The horizon is clear.  But take care, or you will have monsieur’s clothes from the hooks.”

“Tell your master,” said the vicomte, “that we shall pay him a visit later, when he wakes.”  He opened the door, and followed D’Herouville out.

Once outside the two men gazed into each other’s eyes.  Each sought to discover something that lay behind.

“The cloak!” D’Herouville ran his fingers through his beard.  “The Chevalier has never searched the pockets.”

“Let us lay the matter before him and acquaint him with our suspicions,” said the vicomte, his eyes burning.  “His comrade’s danger is common to both of us.  We will ask the Chevalier for his word, and he will never break it.”

“No! a thousand devils, no!  Place my neck under his heel?  Not I.”

“You have some plan?”

“Beaufort offers five thousand livres for that paper, and Gaston will give five thousand more to have proof that it is destroyed.  That is ten thousand, Monsieur.”

“Handsome!”

“And I offer to share with you.”

“You do not need money, Monsieur.”

“I?  The Jews have me tied in a thousand knots!” replied the count, bitterly.

“I am not the least inclined toward partnership.  You must manoeuver to reach the inside of that cloak before I do.  There is nothing more to be said, Monsieur.”

“Take care!” menacingly.

“Faith!  Monsieur,” the vicomte said, coolly, “my sword is quite as long as yours.  And there is the Chevalier.  You must fight him first.”

“And if you find the paper?” forcing a calm into his tones.

“I shall take the next ship back to France.  I will see Beaufort and Gaston, and the bubble will be pricked.”

“Perhaps you may never return.”

“As to that, we shall see.  Come, is there not something more than ten thousand livres behind that paper?”

“You banter.  I do not understand.”

“Is not madame’s name there?”

“Well?”

“She is a widow, young, beautiful, and rich.  And this incriminating signature of hers,—­what a fine thing it would be to hold over her head!  She is a woman, and a woman is easily duped in all things save love.”

D’Herouville trembled.  “You are forcing war.”

“So be it,” tranquilly.  “I will make one compact with you; if I find the paper I will inform you.  Will you accept a like?”

“Yes.”

“Good.  Now, then, once in Paris, I will stake ten thousand livres against your tentative claims to madame’s hand.  We will play at vingt-et-un.  That is true gambling, Monsieur, and you are a good judge.”

“I pick up the gauntlet with pleasure, under all conditions.  Besides, an idea has occurred to me.  The paper may not be what we think it is.  The man who killed De Brissac is not one to give up or throw away the rewards.  Eh, Monsieur?”