“I?”

“You, Monsieur.  I believe that you slept in Fontainebleau.  But who wore your grey cloak?”

“I can not say truthfully because I do not know.”

“Take care!”

“I do not know who wore my cloak.”

“A while back you said something about truth.  You are not telling it now.  I will know who killed De Brissac, an honored and respected gentleman, whatever his political opinions may have been in the past.  It was an encounter under questionable circumstances.  The edict reads that whosoever shall be found guilty of killing in a personal quarrel shall be subject to imprisonment or death.  The name of the man who wore your cloak, or I shall hold you culpable and punish you in his stead.”

The Chevalier stooped and recovered his hat, but he did not touch the sword.

“It is impossible for me to tell you, Monseigneur.  I do not know.  The cloak may have been stolen and worn by some one I never saw.”

“To whom did you lend the cloak?”

“To tell that might bring another innocent man under a cloud.  Besides, I have been absent thirty days; that is a long time to remember so trivial a thing.”

“Which is to say that you refuse to tell me?” not without some admiration.

“It is,” quietly.

“Your exoneration for the name, Chevalier.  The alternative is your resignation from the Guards and your exile.”

Exile from Paris was death to the courtier; but the Chevalier was more than a courtier, he was a soldier.  “I refuse to tell you, Monseigneur.  It is unfair of you to ask me.”

“So be it.  For the sake of your father, the marquis,—­and I have often wondered why you never assume your lawful title,—­for the sake of your father, then, who is still remembered kindly by her Majesty, I shall not send you to the Bastille as was my original intention.  Your exile shall be in the sum of five years.  You are to remain in France.  If you rebel and draw your sword against your country, confiscation and death.  You are also prohibited from offering your services to France against any nation she may be at war with.  If within these five years you set foot inside of Paris, the Bastille, with an additional three years.”

“Monseigneur, that is severe punishment for a man whose only crime is the possession of a grey cloak.”

“Death of my life!  I am not punishing you; I am punishing the man who killed De Brissac.  Come, come, Monsieur le Comte,” in a kindly tone; “do not be a fool, do not throw away a brilliant career for the sake of a friendship.  I who know tell you that it is not worth while.  Friendship, I have learned, is but a guise for self-interest.”

The Chevalier, having nothing to say, bowed.

“Go, then, to your estates.”  Mazarin was angry.  “Mark me, I shall find this friend of yours, but I shall not remit one hour of your punishment.  Messieurs,” turning to the musketeers, “conduct Monsieur le Chevalier to his lodgings and remain with him till dawn, when you will show him the road to Orleans.  And remember, he must see no one.”  Then Mazarin went back to the gallery and resumed his game.  “What!  De Meilleraye, you have won only three louis?  Give me the cards; and tell his Grace of Gramont that I am weary of his discords.”