He had seen that
face before, once or twice on board the Henri IV. It was the woman in
the grey mask. He stared hard and long. Where else had he seen this
face? He was growing old, and sometimes his memory failed him.
Without being conscious of the act, he readjusted his wristbands and
the ruffles at his throat. A handsome young woman at the table would
be a recompense for the dullness of the hour. But he waited in vain at
supper for the appearance of the exquisite face. Like the true
courtier he was, he made no inquiries.
When they were at last alone, the governor said: "I am truly glad you
have come to make the Chevalier return to France. He will never be at
peace here."
"Why?" asked the marquis, weakening his burgundy with water.
"The . . . That is . . ." But the governor foundered.
"Why?" repeated the marquis. "Has he made a fool of himself here as in
France?"
"No, Monsieur," warmly. "He has proved himself to be a gentleman and a
brave soldier."
"He drinks?"
"Only as a gentleman might; neither does he gamble."
"Ah!"
The governor drew figures on the dusty bottle at the side of his plate.
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