The Red Mask | Page 2

cried, in horror.
"Well?" he said, coldly, and with a slight elevation of the eyebrows.
"Pardon me for suggesting that you may be in error. What evidence is
there to show that you are the person to whom that note alludes?"
He gazed at me in undisguised astonishment, and may-be pity, at my
dullness.
"Does it not say, 'the Italian'?"
"But then, Monseigneur, pardon me again, you are not the only Italian
in Paris; there are several at court--Botillani, del'Asta de Agostini,
Magnani. Are these not all Italians? Is it not possible that the note
refers to one of them?"
"Do you think so?" he inquired, raising his eyebrows.
"Ma foi, I see no reason why it should not."
"But does it not occur to you that in such a case there would be little
need for mystery? Why should not André have mentioned his name?"
"The course of leaving out the name appears to me, if Monseigneur will
permit me to say so, an equally desirable one, whether the party
conspired against, be your Eminence or a court fop."
"You argue well," he answered, with a chilling sneer. "But come with
me, de Cavaignac, and I will set such an argument before your eyes as
can leave no doubt in your mind. Venez."
Obediently I followed him through the white and gold folding-doors
into his bedroom. He walked slowly across the apartment, and pulling
aside the curtains he pointed to a long black silk domino lying across
the bed; then, putting out his hand, he drew forth a scarlet mask and
held it up to the light, so that I might clearly see its colour.
"Are you assured?" he asked.

I was indeed! Whatever doubts there may have been in my mind as to
Monsieur André's treachery were now utterly dispelled by this
overwhelming proof.
Having communicated my opinion to his Eminence, I awaited, in
silence, his commands.
For some moments he paced the room slowly with bent head and
toying with his beard. At last he stopped.
"I have sent that knave André upon a mission that will keep him
engaged for some moments yet. Upon his return I shall endeavour to
discover the name of his accomplice, or rather," he added scornfully,
"of his master. I half-suspect--" he began, then suddenly turned to me,
"Can you think of any one, Cavaignac?" he enquired.
I hastened to assure him that I could not, whereat he shrugged his
shoulders in a manner meant to express the value he set upon my
astuteness.
"Ohimè!" he cried bitterly, "how unenviable is my position. Traitors
and conspirators in my very house, and none to guard me against
them!"
"Your Eminence!" I exclaimed, almost indignantly, for this imputation
to one who had served him as I had done was cruel and unjust.
He shot a sharp glance at me from under his puckered brows, then
softening suddenly, as he saw the look upon my face, he came over to
where I stood, and placing his soft white hand upon my shoulder,
"Forgive me, Cavaignac," he said gently, "forgive me, my friend, I
have wronged you. I know that you are true and faithful--and the words
I spoke were wrung from me by bitterness at the thought that one upon
whom I have heaped favours should so betray me--probably," he added
bitterly, "for the sake of a few paltry pistoles, even as Iscariot betrayed
his Master."

"I have so few friends, Cavaignac," he went on, in a tone of passing
sadness, "so few that I cannot afford to quarrel with the only one of
whom I am certain. There are many who fear me; many who cringe to
me, knowing that I have the power to make or break them--but none
who love me. And yet I am envied!" and he broke into a short bitter
laugh, "Envied. 'There goes the true King of France' say noble and
simple, as they doff their hats and bow low before the great and
puissant Cardinal Mazarin. They forget my fortes but they denounce
my foibles, and envying, they malign me, for malice is ever the
favourite mask of envy. They envy me, a lonely old man amid all the
courtiers who cringe like curs about me. Ah; Cavaignac, 'twas wisely
said by that wise man, the late Cardinal Richelieu, that often those
whom the world most envies, stand most in need of pity."
I was deeply moved by his words and by the low tone, now sad, now
fierce, in which they were delivered--for it was unusual for Mazarin to
say so much in a breath, and I knew that André's treachery must have
stricken him sorely.
It was not for me to endeavour by argument to convince him that he
was in error; moreover, I knew full