And that
cloak! The mud on the skirts is a week old. And that scabbard was new
when I left Paris. When I came up I looked like a swashbuckler in one
of Scudery's plays. I let no one see me. Indeed, I doubt if any would
have recognized me. But a man can not ride from Rome to Paris, after
having ridden from Paris to Rome, changing neither his clothes nor his
horse, without losing some particle of his fastidiousness, and, body of
Bacchus! I have lost no small particle of mine."
"Ah, Monsieur Paul," said the lackey, hiding the cast-off clothing in
the closet, "I am that glad to see you safe and sound again!"
"Your own face is welcome, lad. What weather I have seen!" wringing
his mustache and royal. "And Heaven forfend that another such ride
falls my lot." He smiled at the ruddy heap in the fireplace.
What a ride, indeed! For nearly two weeks he had ridden over hills and
mountains, through valleys and gorges, access deep and shallow streams,
sometimes beneath the sun, sometimes beneath the moon or the stars,
sometimes beneath the flying black canopies of midnight storms, always
and ever toward Paris. He had been harried by straggling Spaniards; he
had drawn his sword three times in unavoidable tavern brawls; he had
been robbed of his purse; he had even pawned his signet-ring for a
night's lodging: all because Mazarin had asked a question which only
the pope could answer.
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