at
carried the conviction that my resolve was unchangeable.

"As you will," said the Duke, with some coldness of manner. "A Bourbon
does not offer twice. And so, farewell! I fear 'tis a long road and
an ugly road we have yet to travel, thanks to my folly--eh, Le
Brusquet?"

Out of the tail of my eye I had been watching Le Brusquet. All this
time he had been engaged in examining the silver cup from which he had
drunk his wine--a relic of my past splendour. He toyed with it this
way and that, looking at the arms engraved thereon, and comparing them
with those on the flagon. Then his little eyes stole a swift,
searching glance at me, and a smile--just the shadow of a
smile--flickered over his lips. He had not, however, lost a word of
what was passing between Vendome and myself, and on the Duke addressing
him he put down the cup he held in his hand, saying quietly: "If
Monsieur Broussel will add to his kindness by lending me a sword it
may, perhaps, be better for us, and I promise faithfully to return it."

Without a word I took a sword from the wall and handed it to Le
Brusquet, who received it with a bow, and then, turning to the Duke, I
offered to accompany them to the end of the street, which was an evil
place even by day. I added that a little beyond the end of the street
was the Gloriette, where the guards of Monsieur the Lieutenant of the
Chatelet were to be found, and that thence their way would be safe.

The Duke pulled a long face, apparently at the thought of having to
disclose his identity to the guards of the Chatelet, but Le Brusquet
cut in with a "Let it be so, Monseigneur. Three are better than two,
except in love-making."

At this the Duke laughed, and agreed, and we all three went out into
the street, which twisted and wound its crooked way towards the river
face between two rows of overhanging houses, that seemed as if they
were ever threatening to fall over and bury it in their ruins.

For a little we walked without a word; for Antony of Vendome--fickle
and vain, at once the hope and despair of his time--felt himself hurt
and aggrieved by the refusal of his offer, and for a space preserved a
sulky silence. Ere we had gone a quarter mile, however, his
temper--variable as the wind--began to change and his kindly nature to
reassert itself. We were passing the house of the Duplessis Richelieu
when he spoke.

"_Eh bien_, Monsieur Broussel, change your mind and think better of my
offer. Wh