"
"Good lad, forgive! I am drunk, atrociously drunk; and I have been
drunk so long!" The Chevalier swept the hair out of his eyes. "Have
you an enemy? Have I?"
"Enemies, enemies? If you but knew how I have searched my memory for a
sign of one! The only enemy I could find was . . . myself. Here is
your signet-ring, the one you pawned at Fontainebleau. You see,
Mazarin went to the bottom of things."
The Chevalier slipped the ring on his finger, twirled it, and remained
silent.
"Well?" said Victor, humorously.
"You never told me about Madame de Brissac." The Chevalier held the
beryl of the ring toward the light and watched the flames dance upon
its surface.
"Why should I have told you? I knew how matters stood between you and
madame; it would have annoyed you. It was not want of confidence,
Paul; it was diffidence. Are you sober enough to hear all about it
now?"
"Sober? Well, I can listen." The Chevalier was but half awake
mentally; he still looked at Victor as one would look at an apparition.
"So. Well, then," Victor began, "once upon a time there lived a great
noble. He was valiant in wars and passing loves.
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