“Monseigneur, one or the other of us is mad!  I pray God that it be myself; for it can not be possible that the first minister in France would accuse of such a crime a gentleman who not only possesses courage but pride.”

“Weigh your words, Monsieur le Chevalier,” warned the cardinal.  The Chevalier’s tone was not pleasing to his cardinal’s ear.

“You ask me to weigh my words, Monseigneur?—­to weigh my words?” with a gesture which caused the musketeers to draw closer to Mazarin, “Oh, I am calm, gentlemen; I am calm!” He threw his hat to the floor, drew his sword and tossed it beside the hat, and folding his arms he said, his voice full of sudden wrath—­wrath, against the ironical turn of fortune which had changed his cup of wine into salt:—­“Now, Monseigneur, I demand of you that privilege which belongs to and is inseparable from my house:  the right to face my accusers.”

“I warn you, Monsieur,” said Mazarin, “I like not this manner you assume.  There were witnesses, and trustworthy ones.  Yon may rely upon that.”

“Trustworthy?  That is not possible.  I did not know De Brissac.  I have never exchanged a word with him.”

“It is not advanced that you knew Monsieur le Comte.  But there was madame, who, it is said, was at one time affianced to you.”  Mazarin was a keen physiognomist; and as he read the utter bewilderment written on the Chevalier’s face, his own grew somewhat puzzled.

“Monseigneur, as our Lady is witness, I have never, to my knowledge, set eyes upon Madame de Brissac, though it is true that at one time it was my father’s wish that I should wed Mademoiselle de Montbazon.”

“Monsieur, when a man wears such fashionable clothes as you wear, he naturally fixes the memory, becomes conspicuous.  Do not forget the grey cloak, Monsieur le Chevalier.”

“The grey cloak?” The Chevalier’s face brightened.  “Why, Monseigneur, the grey cloak . . .”  He stopped.  Victor de Saumaise, his friend, his comrade in arms, Victor the gay and careless, who was without any influence save that which his cheeriness and honesty and wit gave him!  Victor the poet, the fashionable Villon, with his ballade, his rondeau, his triolet, his chant-royal!—­Victor, who had put his own breast before his at Lens!  The Chevalier regained his composure, he saw his way clearly, and said quietly:  “I have not worn my grey cloak since the king’s party at Louvre.  I can only repeat that I was not in Paris last night.  I slept at the Pineapple at Fontainebleau.  Having no money, I pawned my ring for a night’s lodging.  If you will send some gentleman to make inquiries, the truth of my statement will be verified.”  There was now no wrath in the Chevalier’s voice; but there was a quality of resignation in it which struck the acute ear of the cardinal and caused him to raise his penciled brows.

“Monsieur, you are hiding something,” he said quickly, even shrewdly.