he was not a broken soldier.  He was a man whose violent temper had strewn his path with failures. . . .  In love!  Silently he mocked himself.  In love, he, the tried veteran, of a hundred inconstancies!  He smiled grimly beneath his mask.  He passed on, stealthily, till he reached a door guarded by two effigies of Francis I. His sword accidentally touched the metal, and the soft clang tingled every nerve in his body.  He waited.  Far away a horse was galloping over the pavement.  He tried the door, and it gave way to his pressure.  He stood in the library of the master of the hotel.  In this very room, while his brain was filled with the fumes of wine and passion, he had scribbled his name upon crackling parchment on which were such names as Gaston d’Orleans, Conde, Beaufort, De Longueville, De Retz.  Fool!

Grinning from the high shelves were the Greek masks, Comedy and Tragedy.  The light from the candle gave a sickly human tint to the marble.  He closed the door.

“Now for the drawer which holds my head; of love, anon!”

He knelt, placing the candle on the book-ledge.  Along the bottom of the shelves ran a series of drawers.  These he opened without sound, searching for secret bottoms.  Drawer after drawer yawned into his face, and his heart sank.  What he sought was not to be found.  The last drawer would not open.  With infinite care and toil he succeeded in prying the lock with the point of his sword, and his spirits rose.  The papers in this drawer were of no use to any one but the owner.  The man in the grey cloak cursed under his breath and a thrill of rage ran through him.  He was about to give up in despair when he saw a small knob protruding from the back panel of the drawer.  Eagerly he touched the knob, and a little drawer slid forth.

“Mine!” With trembling fingers he unfolded the parchment.  He held it close to the candle and scanned each signature.  There was his own, somewhat shaky, but nevertheless his own. . . .  He brushed his eyes, as if cobwebs of doubt had suddenly gathered there.  Her signature!  Hers!  “Roses of Venus, she is mine, mine!” He pressed his lips to the inken line.  Fortune indeed favored him . . . or was it the devil?  Hers!  She was his; here was a sword to bend that proud neck.  Ten thousand livres?  There was more than that, more than that by a hundred times.  Passion first, or avarice; love or greed?  He would decide that question later.  He slipped the paper into the pocket of the cloak.  Curiosity drew him toward the drawer again.  There was an old commission in the musketeers, signed by Louis XIII; letters from Madame de Longueville; an unsigned lettre-de-cachet; an accounting of the revenues of the various chateaus; and a long envelope, yellow with age.  He picked it out of the drawer and blew away the dust.  He read the almost faded address, and his jaw fell. . . .  “To Monsieur le Marquis de Perigny, to be delivered into his hands at my death.”