The Grey Cloak | Page 6

that scabbard was new when I left
Paris. When I came up I looked like a swashbuckler in one of Scudéry's
plays. I let no one see me. Indeed, I doubt if any would have recognized
me. But a man can not ride from Rome to Paris, after having ridden
from Paris to Rome, changing neither his clothes nor his horse, without
losing some particle of his fastidiousness, and, body of Bacchus! I have
lost no small particle of mine."
"Ah, Monsieur Paul," said the lackey, hiding the cast-off clothing in the
closet, "I am that glad to see you safe and sound again!"
"Your own face is welcome, lad. What weather I have seen!" wringing

his mustache and royal. "And Heaven forfend that another such ride
falls my lot." He smiled at the ruddy heap in the fireplace.
What a ride, indeed! For nearly two weeks he had ridden over hills and
mountains, through valleys and gorges, access deep and shallow
streams, sometimes beneath the sun, sometimes beneath the moon or
the stars, sometimes beneath the flying black canopies of midnight
storms, always and ever toward Paris. He had been harried by
straggling Spaniards; he had drawn his sword three times in
unavoidable tavern brawls; he had been robbed of his purse; he had
even pawned his signet-ring for a night's lodging: all because Mazarin
had asked a question which only the pope could answer.
Paris at last!--Paris the fanciful, the illogical, the changeable, the
wholly delightful Paris! He knew his Paris well, did the Chevalier. He
had been absent thirty days, and on the way in from Fontainebleau,
where he had spent the preceding night at the expense of his signet-ring,
he had wondered what changes had taken place among the exiles and
favorites during this time. What if the Grande Mademoiselle again
headed that comic revolution, the Fronde, as in the old days when she
climbed the walls at Orléans and assumed command against the forces
of the king? What if Monsieur de Retz issued orders from the Palais
Royal, using the same-pen with which Mazarin had demanded his
resignation as Archbishop of Paris? In fact, what if Madame de
Longueville, aided by the middle class, had once more taken up
quarters in the Hôtel de Ville? Oh! so many things happened in Paris in
thirty days that the Chevalier would not have been surprised to learn
that the boy Louis had declared to govern his kingdom without the
assistance of ministers, priests, and old women. Ah, that Fronde! Those
had been gallant days, laughable, it is true; but every one seemed to be
able to pluck a feather from the golden goose of fortune. He was
eighteen then, and had followed the royal exodus to Germain.
The Chevalier sighed as he continued to absorb the genial heat of the
water. The captain at the Porte Saint Antoine had told him that the
Grande Mademoiselle was still in exile at Blois, writing lampoons
against the court and particularly against Mazarin; that De Retz was

biting his nails, full of rage and impotence against those fetters which
banishment casts around men of action; that Madame de Longueville
was conducting a love-intrigue in Normandy; and that Louis had to
borrow or beg his pocket-money. Strange as it seemed to the Chevalier,
Paris was unchanged.
But what warmed the Chevalier's heart, even as the water warmed his
body, was the thought of that adorable mystery, that tantalizing,
haunting mystery, the woman unknown. This very room was made
precious by the fact that its air had once embraced her with a familiarity
such as he had never dared assume. What a night that had been! She
had come, masked; she had dined; at his protestations of love she had
laughed, as one laughs who hears a droll story; and in the attempt to put
his arm around her waist, the cold light flashing from her half-hidden
eyes had stilled and abashed him. Why did she hold him, yet repel?
What was her object? Was she some princess who had been hidden
away during her girlhood, to appear only when the bud opened into
womanhood, rich, glorious, and warm? Like a sunbeam, like a shadow,
she flitted through the corridors and galleries of the Louvre and the
Palais Royal, and whenever he had sought to point her out to some one,
to discover her name, lo, she was gone! Tormenting mystery! Ah, that
soft lisp of hers, those enchanting caprices, those amazing
extravagances of fancy, that wit which possessed the sparkle of white
chambertin! He would never forget that summer night when, dressed as
a boy, she had gone with him swashbuckling along the quays. And for
all these meetings, for all her supplicating or imperious notes, what had
been his reward? To kiss