“The Comte d’Herouville!” exclaimed the vicomte.  “Saumaise, this looks bad.  He is not a man to run away like you and me.”

The new-comer spoke to the innkeeper, who raised his index finger and leveled it at Victor and the vicomte.  On seeing them, D’Herouville came over quickly.

“Messieurs,” he began, “I am gratified to find you.”

“The news!” cried the poet and the gamester.

“Devilish bad, Monsieur, for every one.  The paper . . .”

“It is not here,” interrupted the vicomte.

The count swore.  “Mazarin has mentioned your name, Saumaise.  You were a frequent visitor to the Hotel de Brissac.  As for me, I swore to a lie; but am yet under suspicion.  Has either of you seen Madame de Brissac?  I have traced her as far as Rochelle.”

The vicomte looked humorously at the poet.  Victor scowled.  Of the two men he abhorred D’Herouville the more.  As for the vicomte, he laughed.

“You laugh, Monsieur?” said D’Herouville, coldly.  His voice was not unpleasant.

“Why, yes,” replied the vicomte.  “Has Mazarin published an edict forbidding a man to move his diaphragm?  You know nothing about the paper, then?”

“Madame de Brissac knows where it is,” was the startling declaration.  “I ask you again, Messieurs, have you seen her?”

“She is in Rochelle,” said the vicomte.  How many men, he wondered, had been trapped, by madame’s eyes?

“Where is she?” eagerly.

“He lies!” thought Victor.  “He knows madame has no paper.”

“Where she is just now I do not know.”

“She is to sail for Quebec at one o’clock,” said the poet.

There was admiration in the vicomte’s glance.  To send the count on a wild-goose chase to Quebec while madame sauntered leisurely toward Spain!  It was a brilliant stroke, indeed.

“What boat?” demanded D’Herouville.

“The Saint Laurent,” answered the vicomte, playing out the lie.

Victor’s glance was sullen.

“Wait a moment, man!” cried the vicomte, catching the count’s cloak.  “You can not mean to go running after madame in this fashion.  You will compromise her.  Besides, I have some questions to ask.  What about De Brissac’s play-woman?”

“Died in prison six days ago.  She poisoned herself before they examined her.”  The count looked longingly toward the door.

“What!  Poisoned herself?  Then she must have loved that hoary old sinner!” The vicomte’s astonishment was genuine.

The chilling smile which passed over the count’s face was sinister.  “I said she poisoned herself, advisedly.”

“Oho!” The vicomte whistled, while Victor drew back.

“Now, Messieurs, will you permit me to go?  It is high time you both were on the way to Spain.”  D’Herouville stamped his foot impatiently.

“And you will go to Quebec?” asked the vicomte.