Eagerly he touched
the knob, and a little drawer slid forth.
"Mine!" With trembling fingers he unfolded the parchment. He held it
close to the candle and scanned each signature. There was his own,
somewhat shaky, but nevertheless his own. . . . He brushed his eyes,
as if cobwebs of doubt had suddenly gathered there. Her signature!
Hers! "Roses of Venus, she is mine, mine!" He pressed his lips to the
inken line. Fortune indeed favored him . . . or was it the devil?
Hers! She was his; here was a sword to bend that proud neck. Ten
thousand livres? There was more than that, more than that by a hundred
times. Passion first, or avarice; love or greed? He would decide that
question later. He slipped the paper into the pocket of the cloak.
Curiosity drew him toward the drawer again. There was an old
commission in the musketeers, signed by Louis XIII; letters from Madame
de Longueville; an unsigned _lettre-de-cachet_; an accounting of the
revenues of the various chateaus; and a long envelope, yellow with age.
He picked it out of the drawer and blew away the dust. He read the
almost faded address, and his jaw fell.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25