The Grey Cloak | Page 3

He felt a glow

on his cheeks, a quickening of his pulse. To what lengths would he not
go for her sake? Sure of winning her love, yes, he would become great,
rise purified from the slough of loose living. He had never killed a man
dishonorably; he had won his duels by strength and dexterity alone. He
had never taken an advantage of a weakling; for many a man had
insulted him and still walked the earth, suffering only the slight
inconvenience of a bandaged arm or a tender cheek, and a fortnight or
so in bed. Condé had once said of him that there was not a more
courageous man in France; but he could not escape recalling Condé's
afterthought: that drink and reckless temper had kept him where he was.
There was in him a vein of madness which often burst forth in a blind
fury. It had come upon him in battle, and he had awakened many a time
to learn that he had been the hero of an exploit. He was not a boaster;
he was not a broken soldier. He was a man whose violent temper had
strewn his path with failures. . . . In love! Silently he mocked himself.
In love, he, the tried veteran, of a hundred inconstancies! He smiled
grimly beneath his mask. He passed on, stealthily, till he reached a door
guarded by two effigies of Francis I. His sword accidentally touched
the metal, and the soft clang tingled every nerve in his body. He waited.
Far away a horse was galloping over the pavement. He tried the door,
and it gave way to his pressure. He stood in the library of the master of
the hôtel. In this very room, while his brain was filled with the fumes of
wine and passion, he had scribbled his name upon crackling parchment
on which were such names as Gaston d'Orléans, Condé, Beaufort, De
Longueville, De Retz. Fool!
Grinning from the high shelves were the Greek masks, Comedy and
Tragedy. The light from the candle gave a sickly human tint to the
marble. He closed the door.
"Now for the drawer which holds my head; of love, anon!"
He knelt, placing the candle on the book-ledge. Along the bottom of the
shelves ran a series of drawers. These he opened without sound,
searching for secret bottoms. Drawer after drawer yawned into his face,
and his heart sank. What he sought was not to be found. The last
drawer would not open. With infinite care and toil he succeeded in

prying the lock with the point of his sword, and his spirits rose. The
papers in this drawer were of no use to any one but the owner. The man
in the grey cloak cursed under his breath and a thrill of rage ran through
him. He was about to give up in despair when he saw a small knob
protruding from the back panel of the drawer. Eagerly he touched the
knob, and a little drawer slid forth.
"Mine!" With trembling fingers he unfolded the parchment. He held it
close to the candle and scanned each signature. There was his own,
somewhat shaky, but nevertheless his own. . . . He brushed his eyes, as
if cobwebs of doubt had suddenly gathered there. Her signature! Hers!
"Roses of Venus, she is mine, mine!" He pressed his lips to the inken
line. Fortune indeed favored him . . . or was it the devil? Hers! She was
his; here was a sword to bend that proud neck. Ten thousand livres?
There was more than that, more than that by a hundred times. Passion
first, or avarice; love or greed? He would decide that question later. He
slipped the paper into the pocket of the cloak. Curiosity drew him
toward the drawer again. There was an old commission in the
musketeers, signed by Louis XIII; letters from Madame de Longueville;
an unsigned lettre-de-cachet; an accounting of the revenues of the
various chateaus; and a long envelope, yellow with age. He picked it
out of the drawer and blew away the dust. He read the almost faded
address, and his jaw fell. . . . "To Monsieur le Marquis de Périgny, to
be delivered into his hands at my death."
He was not conscious how long a time he stared at that address. Age
had unsealed the envelope, and the man in the grey cloak drew out the
contents. It was in Latin, and with some difficulty he translated it. . . .
So rapt was he over what he read, so nearly in a dream he knelt there,
that neither the sound of a horse entering the court nor the stir of
activity in the armory held forth a menace.
"Good God, what a revenge!"