was still musing when Michelot returned with the information that M.
de Montresor was to be found at the Hotel des Cloches, whither he had
gone to sup a few minutes before. Straightway I set out, bidding him
attend me, and, muffled in my cloak, I proceeded at a brisk pace to the
Rue des Fosses St. Germain, where the lieutenant's auberge was situated.

I left Michelot in the common-room, and, preceded by the plump little
woman who owned the house, I ascended to Montresor's chamber. I found
the young soldier at table, and, fortunately, alone. He rose as I
entered, and as the hostess, retreating, closed the door, I doffed my
hat, and letting fall my cloak revealed myself. His lips parted, and I
heard the hiss of an indrawn breath as his astonished eyes fell upon my
countenance. My laugh dispelled his doubts that I might be other than
flesh and blood--yet not his doubts touching my identity. He caught up
a taper and, coming forward, he cast the light on my face for a moment,
then setting the candle back upon the table, he vented his surprise in
an oath or two, which was natural enough in one of his calling.

"'T is clear, Lieutenant," quoth I, as I detached my sword from the
baldrick, "that you believed me dead. Fate willed, however, that I
should be restored to life, and so soon as I had recovered sufficient
strength to undertake the journey to Paris, I set out. I arrived an hour
ago, and here I am, to redeem my word of honour, and surrender the sword
and liberty which you but lent me."

I placed my rapier on the table and waited for him to speak. Instead,
however, he continued to stare at me for some moments, and when at last
he did break the silence, it was to burst into a laugh that poured from
his throat in rich, mellow peals, as he lay back in his chair.

My wrath arose. Had I travelled from Blois, and done what I deemed the
most honourable deed of my life, to be laughed at for my pains by a
foppish young jackanapes of his Eminence's guards? Something of my
displeasure must he have seen reflected on my face, for of a sudden he
checked his mirth.

"Forgive me, M. de Luynes," he gasped. "Pardieu, 't is no matter for
laughter, and albeit I laughed with more zest than courtesy, I give you
my word that my admiration for you vastly exceeds my amusement. M. de
Luynes," he added, rising and holding out his hand to me, "there are
liars in Paris who give you an evil name--men who laughed at me when
they heard that I had gi