The Chevalier sighed as he continued to absorb the genial heat of the water.  The captain at the Porte Saint Antoine had told him that the Grande Mademoiselle was still in exile at Blois, writing lampoons against the court and particularly against Mazarin; that De Retz was biting his nails, full of rage and impotence against those fetters which banishment casts around men of action; that Madame de Longueville was conducting a love-intrigue in Normandy; and that Louis had to borrow or beg his pocket-money.  Strange as it seemed to the Chevalier, Paris was unchanged.

But what warmed the Chevalier’s heart, even as the water warmed his body, was the thought of that adorable mystery, that tantalizing, haunting mystery, the woman unknown.  This very room was made precious by the fact that its air had once embraced her with a familiarity such as he had never dared assume.  What a night that had been!  She had come, masked; she had dined; at his protestations of love she had laughed, as one laughs who hears a droll story; and in the attempt to put his arm around her waist, the cold light flashing from her half-hidden eyes had stilled and abashed him.  Why did she hold him, yet repel?  What was her object?  Was she some princess who had been hidden away during her girlhood, to appear only when the bud opened into womanhood, rich, glorious, and warm?  Like a sunbeam, like a shadow, she flitted through the corridors and galleries of the Louvre and the Palais Royal, and whenever he had sought to point her out to some one, to discover her name, lo, she was gone!  Tormenting mystery!  Ah, that soft lisp of hers, those enchanting caprices, those amazing extravagances of fancy, that wit which possessed the sparkle of white chambertin!  He would never forget that summer night when, dressed as a boy, she had gone with him swashbuckling along the quays.  And for all these meetings, for all her supplicating or imperious notes, what had been his reward?  To kiss her hand when she came, to kiss her hand when she went, and all the while her lips burned like a cardinal poppy and her eyes lured like those phantom lakes of the desert.  True, he had often kissed her perfumed tresses without her knowledge; but what was that?  Why had he never taken by force that which entreaty did not win?  Love.  Man never uses force where he loves.  When would the day come when the hedge of mystery inclosing her would be leveled?  “Love you, Monsieur?” she had said.  “Ah, well, in a way!”

The Chevalier smiled.  Yes, it was fine to be young, and rich, and in love.  He recalled their first meeting.  He had been placed on guard at the entrance to the grand gallery at the Palais Royal, where Mazarin was giving a mask.  Presently a slender, elegant youth in the garb of a grey musketeer approached.

“Your name, Monsieur, if you please,” he said, scanning the list of invited guests.

“I am one of those who pass without the interrogatory.”  The voice was hoarse, affectedly so; and this roused the Chevalier’s suspicions.