“Word of honor:  supposed I had done.  It was not till a week ago that I learned what you had done.  How I galloped back to Paris!  It was magnificent of you; it was fine.”

“But you?  And that cloak which I lent to you?”

“Well, I was as little concerned as you, which I proved to Mazarin.  I was at my sister’s wedding at Blois.  Your grey cloak was stolen from my room the day before De Brissac met his violent end.  My lad, Hector, found the cloak in a tavern.  How, he would not say.  He dared not keep it, so sent it to the Candlestick in care of another lad.  He understood that its disappearance might bring harm to you.  I trounced him well for his carelessness in permitting the cloak to be stolen.”

“This is all very unusual.  Stolen, from you?” bewildered.

“Yes.”

“And it was not you?”

“Am I a killer of old men?  No, Paul.  De Brissac and I were on excellent terms.  You ought to know me better.  I do not climb into windows, especially when the door is always open for me.  I am like my sword, loyal, frank, and honest; we scorn braggart’s cunning, dark alleys, stealth; we look not at a man’s back but into his face; we prefer sunshine to darkness.  And listen,” tapping his sword:  “he who has done this thing, be he never so far away, yet shall this long sword of mine find him and snuff his candle out.”

“Good lad, forgive!  I am drunk, atrociously drunk; and I have been drunk so long!” The Chevalier swept the hair out of his eyes.  “Have you an enemy?  Have I?”

“Enemies, enemies?  If you but knew how I have searched my memory for a sign of one!  The only enemy I could find was . . . myself.  Here is your signet-ring, the one you pawned at Fontainebleau.  You see, Mazarin went to the bottom of things.”

The Chevalier slipped the ring on his finger, twirled it, and remained silent.

“Well?” said Victor, humorously.

“You never told me about Madame de Brissac.”  The Chevalier held the beryl of the ring toward the light and watched the flames dance upon its surface.

“Why should I have told you?  I knew how matters stood between you and madame; it would have annoyed you.  It was not want of confidence, Paul; it was diffidence.  Are you sober enough to hear all about it now?”

“Sober?  Well, I can listen.”  The Chevalier was but half awake mentally; he still looked at Victor as one would look at an apparition.

“So.  Well, then,” Victor began, “once upon a time there lived a great noble.  He was valiant in wars and passing loves.  From the age of eighteen to sixty, Mars nor Venus had withheld their favors.  He was a Henri IV without a crown.”

“Like that good father of mine,” said the Chevalier, scowling.