The Red Mask | Page 2

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 Andr�� 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 Andr��'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 Andr�� 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.
"Ohim��!" 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 Andr��'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 well that all he said was true, and being no lisping courtier, to whom the art of falsehood comes as naturally as that of breathing, but a blunt soldier who spoke but what was in my heart, I held my peace.
With those keen eyes of his he read what was in my mind;