ied that they would go to Chambord, where they would
remain for some weeks in the hope that the Chevalier might relent
sufficiently to forgive them. Thereafter it was his purpose to take his
bride home to his Sicilian demesne.

Our farewells were soon spoken; yet none the less warm, for all its
brevity, was my leave-taking of Andrea, and our wishes for each other's
happiness were as fervent as the human heart can shape. We little
thought that we were not destined to meet again for years.

Yvonne's adieu was cold and formal--so cold and formal that it seemed to
rob the sunshine of its glory for me as I stepped out into the open air.

After all, what mattered it? I was a fool to have entertained a single
tender thought concerning her.

CHAPTER XIX. OF MY RETURN TO PARIS

Scant cause is there for me to tarry over the details of my return to
Paris. A sad enough journey was it; as sad for my poor Michelot as for
myself, since he rode with one so dejected as I.

Things had gone ill, and I feared that when the Cardinal heard the story
things would go worse, for Mazarin was never a tolerant man, nor one to
be led by the gospel of mercy and forgiveness. For myself I foresaw the
rope--possibly even the wheel; and a hundred times a day I dubbed myself
a fool for obeying the voice of honour with such punctiliousness when
so grim a reward awaited me. What mood was on me--me, Gaston de Luynes,
whose honour had been long since besmirched and tattered until no
outward semblance of honour was left?

But swift in the footsteps of that question would come the
answer--Yvonne. Ay, truly enough, it was because in my heart I had
dared to hold a sentiment of love for her, the purest--nay, the only
pure--thing my heart had held for many a year, that I would set nothing
vile to keep company with that sentiment; that until my sun should
set--and already it dropped swiftly towards life's horizon--my actions
should be the actions of such a man as might win Yvonne's affections.

But let that be. This idle restrospective mood can interest you but
little; nor can you profit from it, unless, indeed, it be by noting
how holy and cleansing to the heart of man is the love--albeit
unrequited--that he bears a good woman.

As we drew near Meung--where we lay on that first night of our
journey--a light travelling chaise, going in the same direction, passed
us at a gallop. As it flashed by, I caught a glimpse of Eugene de
Canaples's swart fac