"True. But supposing Mazarin should be seeking her, paper or no paper,
to force the truth from her?"
"The supposition, does not balance. She knows no more than you or I."
"And Monsieur le Comte's play-woman?"
"Horns of Panurge!" excitedly. "You have struck a new note, Vicomte.
I recollect hearing that she was confined in some one of the city
prisons. The sooner the Saint Laurent sails, the better."
"Would that some one we knew would romp into town from Paris. He might
have news." The vicomte bit the ends of his mustache.
The opening of the tavern door cut short their conversation. A man
entered rudely. He pressed and jostled every one in his efforts to
reach Maitre le Borgne. He was a man of splendid physical presence.
His garments, though soiled and bedraggled by rough riding, were costly
and rich. His spurs were bloody; and the dullness of the blood and the
brightness of the steel were again presented in his fierce eyes. The
face was not pleasing; it was too squarely hewn, too emotional; it
indexed the heart too readily, its passions, its loves and its hates.
There was cunning in the lips and caution in the brow; but the face was
too mutable.
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