Diane had not met him in the gallery as she had fairly
promised, and the young page who had played Mercury to their intrigue
stared him coolly in the face when questioned, and went about his
affairs cavalierly. What did it mean? He scarce saw Mazarin or the
serious faces of the musketeers. With no small effort he succeeded in
finding his voice.
"Monseigneur, I have the honor to report to you the success of my
mission. His Holiness directed me to give you this message." He
choked; he could utter no more.
Mazarin read wrongly these signs of agitation. He took the missive and
laid it aside. He drummed with his fingers, a sign that he was
contemplating something disagreeable.
"Monsieur, when did you arrive?" he asked.
"At six this evening, Monseigneur," answered the Chevalier
listlessly . . . He had entered Paris with joy in his heart, but now
everything seemed to be going wrong.
"Take care, Monsieur," said Mazarin, lifting a warning finger. "You
arrived yesterday, secretly."
"I? Why, Monseigneur, this is the twentieth of February, the evening
we agreed upon. I slept last night at the Pineapple in Fontainebleau.
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