The Red Mask

The Red Mask
by Rafael Sabatini
From The Ludgate, December, 1898.

During the last year of his reign, it was a common thing for Mazarin to
repair to the masques given by the King at the Louvre.
In a long domino, the ample folds of which cloaked his tall, lean figure
beyond all recognition, it was his custom to mingle in the crowd--all
unconscious of his presence--in the hope of gleaning through the
channels of court gossip some serviceable information.
These visits to the Louvre were kept a profound secret from all save
Monsieur André, the valet who dressed him, and myself, the captain of
his guards, who escorted him.
It was usual upon such occasions for the Cardinal to retire to his own
apartments, under the pretence of desiring to be a-bed at an earlier hour.
Once screened from the gaze of the curious, he would prepare for the
ball, and when he was ready, André would summon me from the
ante-chamber. On the night in question, however, I was startled out of
the reverie into which I had lapsed whilst watching two pages throwing
at dice and discussing the arts of the practice, by the Cardinal's own
voice uttering my name:
"Monsieur de Cavaignac,"
At the sound of the rasping voice, which plainly told me that his
Eminence was out of humour, one of the lads sat precipitately upon the
dice, to hide from his master's eyes the unholy nature of their pastime,
whilst I, astonished at the irregularity of the proceedings, turned
sharply round and made a profound obeisance.

One glance at Mazarin told me there was trouble. An angry flush was
upon his sallow face, and his eyes glittered in a strange, discomforting
manner, whilst his jewelled fingers tugged nervously at the long
pointed beard which he still wore, after the fashion of the days of his
late Majesty, Louis XIII.
"Follow me, Monsieur," he said; whereupon, respecting his mood, I
lifted my sword to prevent its clanking, and passed into the study,
which divided the bedroom from the ante-chamber.
Suppressing with masterly self-control, the anger that swelled within
him, Mazarin held out to me a strip of paper.
"Read," he said laconically, as if afraid to trust his voice with more.
Taking the paper as I was bid, I gazed earnestly at it, and marvelled to
myself whether the Cardinal's dotage was upon him, for, stare as I
would, I could detect no writing.
Noting my perplexity, Mazarin took a heavy silver candlestick from the
table, and placing himself at my side, held it so as to throw a strong
light upon the paper. Wonderingly, I examined it afresh, and discovered
this time the faint impression of such characters as might have been
written with a pencil upon another sheet placed over the one that I now
held.
With infinite pains, and awed at what I read, I had contrived to master
the meaning of the first two lines, when the Cardinal, growing
impatient at my slowness, set down the candlestick and snatched the
paper from my hand.
"You have seen?" he asked.
"Not all, your eminence," I replied.
"Then I will read it to you; listen."
And in a slightly shaken monotone he read out to me the following

words:--
"The Italian goes disguised to-night to attend the King's masque. He
will arrive at ten, wearing a black silk domino and a red vizor."
Slowly he folded the document, and then, turning his sharp eyes upon
me.
"Of course," he said, "you do not know the handwriting; but I am well
acquainted with it; it is that of my valet, André."
"It is a gross breach of confidence, if you are certain that it alludes to
your Eminence," I ventured, timidly.
"A breach of confidence, Chevalier!" he cried in derision. "A breach of
confidence! I took you for a wiser man. Does this message suggest
nothing more than a breach of confidence to you?"
I started, aghast, as his meaning dawned upon me, and noting this,
"Ah, I see that it does," he said, with a curious smile. "Well, what do
you say now?"
"I scarcely like to word my thoughts, Monseigneur," I answered.
"Then I will word them for you," he retorted. "There is a conspiracy
afoot."
"God forbid!" I cried, then added quickly; "Impossible! your Eminence
is too well beloved."
"Pish!" he answered, with a frown; "you forget, de Cavaignac, this is
the Palais Mazarin, and not the Louvre. We need no courtiers here."
"Twas but the truth I spoke, Monseigneur," I expostulated.
"Enough!" he exclaimed, "we are wasting time. I am assured that he is
in league with one, or may be more, foul knaves of his kidney, whose
purpose it is--well, what is the usual purpose of a conspiracy?"

"Your Eminence!" I