The Grey Cloak | Page 7

her hand when she came, to kiss her hand
when she went, and all the while her lips burned like a cardinal poppy
and her eyes lured like those phantom lakes of the desert. True, he had
often kissed her perfumed tresses without her knowledge; but what was
that? Why had he never taken by force that which entreaty did not win?
Love. Man never uses force where he loves. When would the day come
when the hedge of mystery inclosing her would be leveled? "Love you,
Monsieur?" she had said. "Ah, well, in a way!"
The Chevalier smiled. Yes, it was fine to be young, and rich, and in
love. He recalled their first meeting. He had been placed on guard at the

entrance to the grand gallery at the Palais Royal, where Mazarin was
giving a mask. Presently a slender, elegant youth in the garb of a grey
musketeer approached.
"Your name, Monsieur, if you please," he said, scanning the list of
invited guests.
"I am one of those who pass without the interrogatory." The voice was
hoarse, affectedly so; and this roused the Chevalier's suspicions.
"I can not believe that," he laughed, "since Monsieur le Duc, his
Majesty's brother, was good enough to permit me to question him." He
leaned against the wall, smiling and twisting his mustache. What a
charming musketeer!
"What!" haughtily, "you parley with me?" A gauntleted hand flew to a
jeweled hilt.
"Monsieur will not be so rude?" mockingly.
"Monsieur!" with a stamp of the foot--a charming foot.
"Monsieur!" he mimicked, also stamping a foot which, though shapely,
was scarce charming.
Then through the curtain of the mask there came a low, rollicking laugh.
The hand fell away from the sword-hilt, and a grey gauntlet slipped to
the floor, discovering a hand as dazzling white and begemmed as that
on which Anne of Austria prided herself.
"Death of my life!" said a voice as soft and musical as the vibration of a
bell, "you make an admirable Cerberus. My gauntlet." The sweep of the
hand fascinated him. "Are your ears like the sailors' of Ulysses, filled
with wax? I am asking you to pick up my gauntlet."
As he stooped to obey the command, a laugh sounded behind him, and
he knew that he had been tricked. The little musketeer had vanished.
For a moment he was disturbed. In vain he searched the gauntlet for

some distinguishing sign. But as reason told him that no harm could
possibly come from the prank, his fears subsided, and he laughed. On
being relieved from duty, later, he sought her, to return the gauntlet.
She was talking to Mademoiselle de Longueville. As she saw the
Chevalier, she moved away. The Chevalier, determined on seeing the
adventure to its end, followed her deliberately. She sat in a
window-seat. Without ceremony he sat down beside her.
"Monsieur," he said, smiling, and he was very handsome when he
smiled, "permit me to return this gauntlet."
She folded her arms, and this movement of her shoulders told him that
she was laughing silently.
"Are you madame or mademoiselle?" he asked, eagerly.
She raised her mask for an instant, and his subjugation was complete.
The conversation which ensued was so piquant and charming that
thereafter whatever warmth the gauntlet knew was gathered not from
her hand but from the Chevalier's heart.
The growing chill in the water brought the Chevalier out of his reverie.
He leaped from the tub and shone rosily in the firelight, as elegantly
proportioned a youth as ever was that fabulous Leander of the
Hellespont.
"Bring me those towels I purchased from the wandering Persian. I
regret that I did not have them blessed by his Holiness. For who knows
what spell the heretic Saracen may have cast over them?"
"Monsieur knows," said Breton piously, "that I have had them
sprinkled with the blessed water."
The Chevalier laughed. He was rather a godless youth, and whatever
religion he possessed was merely observance of forms. "Donkey, if the
devil himself had offered them for sale, I should have taken them, for
they pleased me; and besides, they have created a fashion. I shall wear
my new baldric--the red one. I report at the Palais Royal at eight, and

I've an empty stomach to attend to. Be lively, lad. Duty, duty, always
duty," snatching the towels. "I have been in the saddle since morning; I
am still dead with stiffness; yet duty calls. Bah! I had rather be fighting
the Spaniard with Turenne than idle away at the Louvre. Never any
fighting save in pothouses; nothing but ride, ride, ride, here, there,
everywhere, bearing despatches not worth the paper written on, but
worth a man's head if he lose them. And what about? Is this person ill?
Condolences. Is this person a