en pale face, his brilliant eyes, even his presence--though he was
of no great height, and began already to stoop at the shoulders--were
enough to awe the boldest. I recalled, as I looked at him, a hundred
tales of his iron will, his cold heart, his unerring craft. He had
humbled the King's brother, the splendid Duke of Orleans, in the dust.
He had curbed the Queen-mother. A dozen heads, the noblest in France,
had come to the block through him. Only two years before he had quelled
Rochelle; only a few months before he had crushed the great insurrection
in Languedoc: and though the south, stripped of its old privileges,
still seethed with discontent, no one in this year 1630 dared lift
a hand against him--openly, at any rate. Under the surface a hundred
plots, a thousand intrigues, sought his life or his power; but these, I
suppose, are the hap of every great man.

No wonder, then, that the courage on which I plumed myself sank low at
sight of him; or that it was as much as I could do to mingle with
the humility of my salute some touch of the SANG FROID of old
acquaintanceship.

And perhaps that had been better left out. For it seemed that this
man was without bowels. For a moment, while he stood looking at me, and
before he spoke to me, I gave myself up for lost. There was a glint
of cruel satisfaction in his eyes that warned me, before he opened his
mouth, what he was going to say to me.

'I could not have made a better catch, M. de Berault,' he said, smiling
villainously, while he gently smoothed the fur of a cat that had sprung
on the table beside him. 'An old offender, and an excellent example. I
doubt it will not stop with you. But later, we will make you the warrant
for flying at higher game.'

'Monseigneur has handled a sword himself,' I blurted out. The very room
seemed to be growing darker, the air colder. I was never nearer fear in
my life.

'Yes?' he said, smiling delicately. 'And so--?'

'Will not be too hard on the failings of a poor gentleman.'

'He shall suffer no more than a rich one,' he replied suavely as he
stroked the cat. 'Enjoy that satisfaction, M. de Berault. Is that all?'

'Once I was of service to your Eminence,' I said desperately.

'Payment has been made,' he answered, 'more than once. But for that I
should not have seen you.'

'The King's face!' I cried, snatching at the straw he seemed to hold
out.

He laughed cynically, smoothly. His thin face, his dark moustache, and
whiteni