shes, in which he had played as a boy. And on him fell
a strange calm, between apathy and resignation. This, then, was his
punishment. He would bear it like a man. There should be no flinching a
second time, no putting the burden on others' shoulders, no self-sparing
at another's cost.

He started to walk briskly in the direction of the Louvre. But when he
had gained the corner of the open space in front of the palace, whence
he had a view of the main gate between the two tennis courts, he halted
and looked up and down as if he hesitated. A watch-fire smouldering and
sputtering in the rain was burning dully before the drawbridge; the
forms of one or two men, apparently sentinels, were dimly visible about
it. After standing in doubt more then a minute, Bazan glided quickly to
the porch of the church of St. Germain l'Auxerrois, and disappeared in
the angle between it and the cloisters.

He had been stationary in this position for some half-hour--in what
bitterness of spirit, combating what regrets and painful thoughts it is
possible only to imagine--when a slight commotion took place at the gate
which faced him. Two men came out in close converse, and stood a moment
looking up as if speaking of the weather. They separated then, and one
who even by that uncertain light could be seen to be a man of tall,
spare presence, came across the open space towards the end of the Rue
des Fosses, which passed beside the cloisters. He had just entered the
street, when Bazan, who had been closely watching his movements, stepped
from the shadow of the houses and touched his sleeve.

The tall man recoiled sharply as he turned. He laid his hand on his
sword and partly drew it. "Who are you?" he said, trying in the darkness
to make out the other's features.

"M. de Crillon, is it not?" the young man asked.

"Yes. And you, young sir?"

"My name is Claude de Bazan, but you do not know me, I have a word to
say to you."

"You have chosen an odd time, my friend."

"Some things are always timely," the young fellow answered, the
excitement under which he laboured and the occasion imparting a spice of
flippancy to his tone. "I come to warn you that your life is in danger.
Do not go alone, M. de Crillon, or pass this way at night! And whatever
you do, walk for the future in the middle of the street!"

"For the warning I am obliged to you," the tall man answered, his voice
cool and satirical, while his eyes continued to scan the other's
fea