He had never taken an advantage of a weakling; for many a man had
insulted him and still walked the earth, suffering only the slight
inconvenience of a bandaged arm or a tender cheek, and a fortnight or
so in bed. Conde had once said of him that there was not a more
courageous man in France; but he could not escape recalling Conde's
afterthought: that drink and reckless temper had kept him where he was.
There was in him a vein of madness which often burst forth in a blind
fury. It had come upon him in battle, and he had awakened many a time
to learn that he had been the hero of an exploit. He was not a
boaster; he was not a broken soldier. He was a man whose violent
temper had strewn his path with failures. . . . In love! Silently he
mocked himself. In love, he, the tried veteran, of a hundred
inconstancies! He smiled grimly beneath his mask. He passed on,
stealthily, till he reached a door guarded by two effigies of Francis
I. His sword accidentally touched the metal, and the soft clang
tingled every nerve in his body. He waited. Far away a horse was
galloping over the pavement. He tried the door, and it gave way to his
pressure.
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