The barriers creaked, opened the way, and the
Chevalier passed forth. There was a cheering word or two, a waving of
hats, and then the barriers fell back into place. A quarter of a mile
away, having reached an elevation, the exile stopped his horse and
turned in the saddle. As he strained his bloodshot eyes toward the
city, the mask of intoxication fell away from his face, leaving it worn
and wretched. The snow lay everywhere, white, untrampled, blinding.
The pale yellow beams of the sun broke in brilliant flashes against the
windows of the Priory of Jacobins, while above the city, the still
sleeping city, rose long spiral threads of opal-tinted smoke.
Five years. And for what? Friendship. How simple to have told
Mazarin that he had loaned the cloak to Victor de Saumaise. A dozen
words. His head was throbbing violently and his throat was hot. He
took off his hat and the keen air of morning cooled his damp forehead.
Five years. He could see this year drag itself to its dismal end, and
another, and another, till five had come and gone, each growing
infinitely longer and duller and more hopeless. Of what use were youth
and riches without a Paris? Friendship? Was he not, as Mazarin had
pointed out, a fool for his pains? It was giving away five years of
life and love.
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