"Was it not you I followed from the Place du Louvre?"
"When?"
"Just now."
"No."
"It was not you who disappeared under the gate ten minutes ago?"
"No."
"It was not you who just ascended the stairs as if you were pursued by a legion of devils?"
"No."
"By Heaven!" cried Coconnas, "the wine of the Belle Étoile is not poor enough to have so completely turned my head. I tell you that I have just seen your cherry-colored cloak and your white plume under the gate of the Louvre, that I followed both to the foot of the stairway, and that your cloak, your plume, everything, to your swinging arm, was expected here by a lady whom I greatly suspect to be the Queen of Navarre, and who led you through that door, which, unless I am mistaken, is that of the beautiful Marguerite."
"By Heaven!" cried La Mole, growing pale, "could there be treason?"