again."

"Willingly."

"I compliment you on your good sense. Monsieur, I've been thinking
seriously. Has it not occurred to you that Madame de Brissac has that
paper?"

"Would she seek Spain?" said Victor.

"True. But supposing Mazarin should be seeking her, paper or no paper,
to force the truth from her?"

"The supposition, does not balance. She knows no more than you or I."

"And Monsieur le Comte's play-woman?"

"Horns of Panurge!" excitedly. "You have struck a new note, Vicomte.
I recollect hearing that she was confined in some one of the city
prisons. The sooner the Saint Laurent sails, the better."

"Would that some one we knew would romp into town from Paris. He might
have news." The vicomte bit the ends of his mustache.

The opening of the tavern door cut short their conversation. A man
entered rudely. He pressed and jostled every one in his efforts to
reach Maitre le Borgne. He was a man of splendid physical presence.
His garments, though soiled and bedraggled by rough riding, were costly
and rich. His spurs were bloody; and the dullness of the blood and the
brightness of the steel were again presented in his fierce eyes. The
face was not pleasing; it was too squarely hewn, too emotional; it
indexed the heart too readily, its passions, its loves and its hates.
There was cunning in the lips and caution in the brow; but the face was
too mutable.

"The Comte d'Herouville!" exclaimed the vicomte. "Saumaise, this looks
bad. He is not a man to run away like you and me."

The new-comer spoke to the innkeeper, who raised his index finger and
leveled it at Victor and the vicomte. On seeing them, D'Herouville
came over quickly.

"Messieurs," he began, "I am gratified to find you."

"The news!" cried the poet and the gamester.

"Devilish bad, Monsieur, for every one. The paper . . ."

"It is not here," interrupted the vicomte.

The count swore. "Mazarin has mentioned your name, Saumaise. You were
a frequent visitor to the Hotel de Brissac. As for me, I swore to a
lie; but am yet under suspicion. Has either of you seen Madame de
Brissac? I have traced her as far as Rochelle."

The vicomte looked humorously at the poet. Victor scowled. Of the two
men he abhorred D'Herouville the more. As for the vicomte, he laughed.

"You laugh, Monsieur?" said D'Herouville, coldly. His voice was not
unpleasant.

"Why, yes," replied the vicomte. "Has Mazarin published an edict
forbidding