" continued he, "that I am not a
simple messenger, but an envoy extraordinary."

Bernouin re-entered the cabinet, returning in a few seconds. "Enter,
sir," said he.

The young man appeared on the threshold of the minister's closet, in one
hand holding his hat, in the other the letter. Mazarin rose. "Have you,
sir," asked he, "a letter accrediting you to me?"

"There it is, my lord," said the young man.

Mazarin took the letter and read it thus:

"Mr. Mordaunt, one of my secretaries, will remit this letter of
introduction to His Eminence, the Cardinal Mazarin, in Paris. He is also
the bearer of a second confidential epistle for his eminence.

"Oliver Cromwell."

"Very well, Monsieur Mordaunt," said Mazarin, "give me this second
letter and sit down."

The young man drew from his pocket a second letter, presented it to the
cardinal, and took his seat. The cardinal, however, did not unseal the
letter at once, but continued to turn it again and again in his hand;
then, in accordance with his usual custom and judging from experience
that few people could hide anything from him when he began to question
them, fixing his eyes upon them at the same time, he thus addressed the
messenger:

"You are very young, Monsieur Mordaunt, for this difficult task of
ambassador, in which the oldest diplomatists often fail."

"My lord, I am twenty-three years of age; but your eminence is mistaken
in saying that I am young. I am older than your eminence, although
I possess not your wisdom. Years of suffering, in my opinion, count
double, and I have suffered for twenty years."

"Ah, yes, I understand," said Mazarin; "want of fortune, perhaps.
You are poor, are you not?" Then he added to himself: "These English
Revolutionists are all beggars and ill-bred."

"My lord, I ought to have a fortune of six millions, but it has been
taken from me."

"You are not, then, a man of the people?" said Mazarin, astonished.

"If I bore my proper title I should be a lord. If I bore my name you
would have heard one of the most illustrious names of England."

"What is your name, then?" asked Mazarin.

"My name is Mordaunt," replied the young man, bowing.

Mazarin now understood that Cromwell's envoy desired to retain his
incognito. He was silent for an instant, and during that time he scanned
the young man even more attentively than he had done at first. The
messenger was unmoved.

"Devil take these Puritans," said Mazarin aside; "they ar