r north,
these two men were, between them, drawing together the thread of this
narrative of mine, as anon you shall learn.

We reached Paris at dusk three days later, and we went straight to my
old lodging in the Rue St. Antoine.

Coupri started and gasped upon beholding me, and not until I had cursed
him for a fool in a voice that was passing human would he believe that I
was no ghost. He too had heard the rumour of my death.

I dispatched Michelot to the Palais Royal, where--without permitting his
motive to transpire--he was to ascertain for me whether M. de Montresor
was in Paris, whether he still dwelt at the Hotel des Cloches, and at
what hour he could be found there.

Whilst he was away I went up to my room, and there I found a letter
which Coupri informed me had been left by a lackey a month ago--before
the report that I had been killed had reached Paris--and since lain
forgotten. It was a delicate note, to which still hung the ghost of a
perfume; there were no arms on the seal, but the writing I took to be
that of my aunt, the Duchesse de Chevreuse, and vaguely marvelling what
motive she could have had for communicating with me, I cut the silk.

It was, indeed, from the Duchesse, but it contained no more than a
request that I should visit her at her hotel on the day following upon
that on which she had written, adding that she had pleasing news for me.

I thrust the note into my pocket with a sigh. Of what could it avail me
now to present myself at her hotel? Her invitation was for a month ago.
Since then she would likely enough have heard the rumour that had been
current, and would have ceased to expect me.

I caught myself wondering whether the news might have caused her a pang
of regret, and somehow methought this possible. For of all my relatives,
Madame de Chevreuse was the only one--and she was but my aunt by
marriage--who of late years had shown me any kindness, or even
recognition. I marvelled what her pleasing news could be, and I
concluded that probably she had heard of my difficulties, and wished
once again to help me out of them. Well, my purse was hollow, indeed,
at the moment, but I need not trouble her, since I was going somewhere
where purses are not needed--on a journey to which no expenses are
attached.

In my heart, nevertheless, I blessed the gracious lady, who, for all the
lies that the world may have told of her, was the kindest woman I had
known, and the best--save one other.

I