The hands of the clock in the quaint water-tower La Samaritaine pointed
at five to eight. Oddly enough there came to the Chevalier a
transitory picture of a young Jesuit priest, winding through the bleak
hills on the way to Rouen. The glories of the world, the love of
women? What romance lay smoldering beneath that black cassock? What
secret grief? What sin? Brother Jacques? The name signified nothing.
Like all courtiers of his time, the Chevalier entertained the belief
that when a handsome youth took the orders it was in the effort to bury
some grief rather than to assist in the alleviation of the sorrows of
mankind.
He walked on, skirting the Louvre and presently entering the courtyard
of the Palais Royal. The number of flambeaux, carriages and _caleches_
indicated to him that Mazarin was giving a party. He lifted his cloak
from his shoulders, shook it, and threw it over his arm, and ascended
the broad staircase, his heart beating swiftly. Would he see her?
Would she be in the gallery? Would this night dispel the mystery? At
the first landing he ran almost into Captain de Guitaut, who was
descending.
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