ances of fancy, that wit which possessed the sparkle of white
chambertin! He would never forget that summer night when, dressed as a
boy, she had gone with him swashbuckling along the quays. And for all
these meetings, for all her supplicating or imperious notes, what had
been his reward? To kiss her hand when she came, to kiss her hand when
she went, and all the while her lips burned like a cardinal poppy and
her eyes lured like those phantom lakes of the desert. True, he had
often kissed her perfumed tresses without her knowledge; but what was
that? Why had he never taken by force that which entreaty did not win?
Love. Man never uses force where he loves. When would the day come
when the hedge of mystery inclosing her would be leveled? "Love you,
Monsieur?" she had said. "Ah, well, in a way!"

The Chevalier smiled. Yes, it was fine to be young, and rich, and in
love. He recalled their first meeting. He had been placed on guard at
the entrance to the grand gallery at the Palais Royal, where Mazarin
was giving a mask. Presently a slender, elegant youth in the garb of a
grey musketeer approached.

"Your name, Monsieur, if you please," he said, scanning the list of
invited guests.

"I am one of those who pass without the interrogatory." The voice was
hoarse, affectedly so; and this roused the Chevalier's suspicions.

"I can not believe that," he laughed, "since Monsieur le Duc, his
Majesty's brother, was good enough to permit me to question him." He
leaned against the wall, smiling and twisting his mustache. What a
charming musketeer!

"What!" haughtily, "you parley with me?" A gauntleted hand flew to a
jeweled hilt.

"Monsieur will not be so rude?" mockingly.

"Monsieur!" with a stamp of the foot--a charming foot.

"Monsieur!" he mimicked, also stamping a foot which, though shapely,
was scarce charming.

Then through the curtain of the mask there came a low, rollicking
laugh. The hand fell away from the sword-hilt, and a grey gauntlet
slipped to the floor, discovering a hand as dazzling white and begemmed
as that on which Anne of Austria prided herself.

"Death of my life!" said a voice as soft and musical as the vibration
of a bell, "you make an admirable Cerberus. My gauntlet." The sweep
of the hand fascinated him. "Are your ears like the sailors' of
Ulysses, filled with wax? I am asking you to pick up my gauntlet."

As he stooped to obey the command, a laugh sounded behind him, and h