Meanwhile the Chevalier entered the gallery, following Bernouin.  His face wore a puzzled, troubled expression.  All this ado somewhat confused him.

“He is handsome,” said Madame de Montbazon; “handsomer than ever his father was.”

“He is more than handsome,” said Beaufort, whose astonishment was genuine; “he is brave.  What the devil brings him here into the wolf’s maw?”

“His innocence.  You see I was correct;” and madame’s face grew placid again.  So satisfied was she that she did not notice Beaufort’s pallor nor the fever which burned in his brilliant eyes.

When the Chevalier was ushered into Mazarin’s presence he was in great perturbation.  Diane had not met him in the gallery as she had fairly promised, and the young page who had played Mercury to their intrigue stared him coolly in the face when questioned, and went about his affairs cavalierly.  What did it mean?  He scarce saw Mazarin or the serious faces of the musketeers.  With no small effort he succeeded in finding his voice.

“Monseigneur, I have the honor to report to you the success of my mission.  His Holiness directed me to give you this message.”  He choked; he could utter no more.

Mazarin read wrongly these signs of agitation.  He took the missive and laid it aside.  He drummed with his fingers, a sign that he was contemplating something disagreeable.

“Monsieur, when did you arrive?” he asked.

“At six this evening, Monseigneur,” answered the Chevalier listlessly . . .  He had entered Paris with joy in his heart, but now everything seemed to be going wrong.

“Take care, Monsieur,” said Mazarin, lifting a warning finger.  “You arrived yesterday, secretly.”

“I?  Why, Monseigneur, this is the twentieth of February, the evening we agreed upon.  I slept last night at the Pineapple in Fontainebleau.  I repeat to you, I arrived scarce two hours ago.”  It was now for the first time that he noted the seriousness of the faces confronting him.

“And I repeat that you arrived last night.”

“Monseigneur, that is telling me that I lie!”

“Then tell the truth.”  Mazarin did not particularly relish the Chevalier’s haughtiness.  “You were in Paris last night.”

“Monseigneur, I am a gentleman.  While I lack many virtues, I do not lack courage and truthfulness.  When I say that I slept in Fontainebleau, I say so truthfully.  Your Eminence will tell me the cause of this peculiar interrogatory.  There is an accusation pending.”  There was no fear in the Chevalier’s face, but there was pride and courage and something bordering closely on contempt.

“Very well, then,” replied Mazarin icily.  “You were in Paris last night.  You had an appointment at the Hotel de Brissac.  You entered by a window.  Being surprised by the aged Brissac, you killed him.”

The musketeers, who knew the Chevalier’s courage, exchanged glances of surprise and disbelief.  As for the accused, he stepped back, horrified.