should marry the obscure daughter of madame?—the daughter about whom very few had ever heard? Without the Chevalier's sanction, miniatures had been exchanged. When the marquis presented him with that of Mademoiselle de Montbazon, together with his desires, he had ground the one under foot without glancing at it, and had laughed at the other as preposterous. Since that night the marquis had ceased to recall his name. The Chevalier's mother had died at his birth; thus, he knew neither maternal nor paternal love; and a man must love something which is common with his blood. Even now he would have gone half-way, had his father's love come to meet him. But no; Monsieur le Marquis loved only his famous wines, his stories, and his souvenirs. Bah! this daughter had been easily consoled. The Comte de Brissac was fully sixty. The Chevalier squared his shoulders and shifted his baldric.

With forced gaiety he turned to his lackey. "Lad, let us love only ourselves. Self-love is always true to us. We will spend our gold and play the butterfly while the summer lasts. It will be cold soon, and then … pouf! To-morrow you will take the gold and balance my accounts."

"Yes, Monsieur. Will Monsieur permit a familiarity by recalling a forbidden subject?"

"Well?"

"Monsieur le Comte de Brissac died last night," solemnly.

"What! of old age?" ironically.

"Of steel. A gallant was entering by a window, presumably to entertain madame, who is said to be young and as beautiful as her mother was. Monsieur le Comte appeared upon the scene; but his guard was weak. He was run through the neck. The gallant wore a mask. That is all I know of the scandal."

"Happy the star which guided me from the pitfall of wedded life! What an escape! I must inform Monsieur le Marquis. He will certainly relish this bit of scandal which all but happened at his own fireside. Certainly I shall inform him. It will be like caviar to the appetite. I shall dine before the effect wears off." The Chevalier put on his hat and cloak, and took a final look in the Venetian mirror. "Don't wait for me, lad; I shall be late. Perhaps to-night I shall learn her name."

Breton smiled discreetly as his master left the room. Between a Catharine of the millinery and a mysterious lady of fashion there was no inconsiderable difference.

CHAPTER III

THE MUTILATED HAND

"Monsieur Paul?" cried the handsome widow of Monsieur Boisjoli, stepping from behind the pastry counter.

"Yes, Mignon, it is I," said the Chevalier; "that is, what remains of me."

"What happiness to see you again!" she exclaimed. She turned to a waiter. "Charlot, bring Monsieur le Chevalier the pheasant pie, the ragout of hare, and a bottle of chambertin from the bin of '36."

"Sorceress!" laughed the Chevalier; "you have sounded the very soul of me. Thanks, Mignon, thanks! Next to love, what is more to a man than a full stomach? Ah, you should have seen me when I came in! And devil take this nose of mine; not even steam and water have thawed the frost from it." He chucked her under the chin and smiled comically, all of which made manifest that the relations existing between the hostess of the Candlestick and her principal tenant were of the most cordial and Platonic character.

"And you have just returned from Rome? Ah, what a terrible ride!"

"Abominable, Mignon."

"And I see you hungry!" She sighed, and her black eyes grew moist and tender. Madame Boisjoli was only thirty-two. She was young.

"But alive, Mignon, alive; don't forget that."

"You have had adventures?" eagerly; for she was a woman who loved the recital of exploits. Monsieur Boisjoli had fallen as a soldier at Charenton.

"Adventures? Oh, as they go," slapping his rapier and his pockets which had recently been very empty.

"You have been wounded?"

"Only in the pockets, dear, and in the tender quick of comfort. And will you have Charlot hasten that pie? I can smell it from afar, and my mouth waters."

"This moment, Monsieur;" and she flew away to the kitchens.

The Chevalier took this temporary absence as an opportunity to look about him. Only one table was occupied. This occupant was a priest who was gravely dining off black bread and milk served in a wooden bowl. But for the extreme pallor of his skin, which doubtless had its origin in the constant mortification of the flesh, he would have been a singularly handsome man. His features were elegantly designed, but it was evident that melancholy had recast them in a serious mold. His face was clean-shaven, and his hair clipped, close to the skull. There was something eminently noble in the loftiness of the forehead, and at the same time there was something subtly cruel in the turn of the nether lip, as though the spirit and the flesh were constantly at war. He was young, possibly not older than the Chevalier, who was thirty.

The priest, as if feeling the Chevalier's scrutiny, raised his eyes. As their glances met, casually in the way of gratifying a natural curiosity, both men experienced a mental disturbance which was at once strange and annoying. Those large, penetrating grey eyes; each seemed to be looking into his own as in a mirror.

The Chevalier was first to disembarrass himself. "A tolerably shrewd night, Monsieur," he said with a friendly gesture.

"It is the frost in the air, my son," the priest responded in a mellow barytone. "May Saint Ignatius listen kindly to the poor. Ah, this gulf you call Paris, I like it not."

"You are but recently arrived?" asked the Chevalier politely.

"I came two days ago. I leave for Rouen this night."

"What! you travel at night, and leave a cheery tavern like this?" All at once the crinkle of a chill ran across the Chevalier's shoulders. The thumb, the forefinger and the second of the priest's left hand were twisted, reddened stumps.

"Yes, at night; and the wind will be rough, beyond the hills. But I have suffered worse discomforts;" and to this statement the priest added a sour smile. He had seen the shudder. He dropped the maimed hand below the level of the table.

"You ride, however?" suggested the Chevalier.

"A Spanish mule, the gift of Father Vincent."

"Her Majesty's confessor?"

"Yes."

"You are a Jesuit?"

"I have the happiness to serve God in that order. I have just presented my respects to her Majesty and Cardinal Mazarin. I am come from America, my son, to see his Eminence in regard to the raising of funds for some new missions we have in mind; but I have been indifferently successful, due possibly to my lack of eloquence and to the fact that my superior, Father Chaumonot, was unable to accompany me to Paris. I shall meet him in Rouen."

"And so you are from that country of which I have heard so much of late—that France across the sea?" The Chevalier's tones expressed genuine interest. He could now account for the presence of the mutilated hand. Here was a man who had seen strange adventures in a strange land. "New France!" musingly.

"Yes, my son; and I am all eagerness to return."

The Chevalier laughed pleasantly. "Pardon my irrelevancy, but I confess that it excites my amusement to be called 'son' by one who can not be older than myself."

"It is a habit I acquired with the savages. And yet, I have known men of fifty to be young," said the Jesuit, his brows sinking. "I have known men of thirty to be old. Youth never leaves us till we have suffered. I am old, very old." He was addressing some inner thought rather than the Chevalier.

"Well, I am thirty, myself," said the Chevalier with assumed lightness. "I am neither young nor old. I stand on the threshold. I can not say that I have suffered since I have known only physical discomforts. But to call me 'son' …"

"Well, then," replied the priest, smiling, "since the disparity in years is so small as to destroy the dignity of the term, I shall call you