“And is this son handsome?”

“Handsome and rich, with the valor of a Crillon.  The daughter of a Montbazon would never look at a clod. . . .  Monks of Touraine!” he ejaculated.  “I remember now.  I have seen her.  Madame, I compliment you.”

“Beaufort, believe me when I say that my daughter and the Chevalier du Cevennes have never met face to face.  I am in a position to know.  Since presentation Gabrielle has not been to court, unless it has been without my knowledge.  Certainly the motive must have been robbery.”

“Nothing of the sort.  Nothing was missing from the Hotel de Brissac.  The Chevalier is rich.”

“The Chevalier?  I tell you that the association is impossible.  In the first place . . .  It is of no matter,” biting her lips.  “I know.”

“Ventre Saint Gris! as my grandfather used to say, there is but one grey cloak lined with purple satin, but one square velvet collar, a fashion which the Chevalier invented himself.  Three persons saw and recognized the cloak.  If the Chevalier returns, it is the Bastille and forgetfulness.  Mazarin is becoming as strict as those pot-hat Puritans yonder in England.  He might possibly overlook a duel in the open; but to enter a man’s house by the window . . .  What more is there to be said?  And all this recalls what my father used to say.  De Brissac and the Marquis de Perigny were deadly enemies.  It seems that De Brissac had one love affair; Madame la Marquise while she was a Savoy princess.  She loved the marquis, and he married her because De Brissac wanted her.  But De Brissac evidently never had his revenge.”

Madame felt that she could no longer sustain the conversation.  In her own mind she was positive that her daughter and the son of her old flame had never met.  A man does not fall in love with a woman after he refuses to look at her; and the Chevalier had refused to look at Gabrielle.  Why?  Her mind was not subtile enough to pierce the veil.

A lackey approached Beaufort.

“I was directed to give this note to your Highness.”  The lackey bowed profoundly and retired.

Beaufort opened the note, scanned the lines, and grew deadly pale.  What he read was this:  “Monsieur le Comte’s private papers are missing, taken by his assailant, who entered the hotel for that purpose.  Be careful.”  The note was unsigned.

At this moment Bernouin approached Mazarin and whispered something in his ear.

“Impossible!” cried the cardinal.

“It is true, nevertheless,” replied the valet.  “He is in the anteroom.”

“The fellow is a fool!  Does he think to brazen it out?  I shall make an example of him.  De Meilleraye, take my cards, and if you lose more than ten louis! . . .  Ladies, an affair of state,” and Mazarin rose and limped into the adjoining cabinet.  “Bring him into this room,” he said to the valet.  He then stationed two gentlemen of the musketeers behind his chair, sat down and waited, a grimace of pain twisting his lips.