“Enter, you! What see you?”
“The courier bows to a man sitting at a desk, whose back is to the door. He turns—he is in full dress with a broad blue ribbon crossing his breast. His eye is sharp, his features irregular, his teeth good; his age fifty or more.”
“Choiseul,” whispered the countess to the duke who nodded.
“The courier hands the man a letter—— ”
“Say the duke—it is a duke.”
“A letter,” resumed the obedient Voice, “taken from a leather satchel worn on his back. Unsealing it, the duke reads it with attention. He takes up a pen and writes on a sheet of paper.”
“It would be fine if we could learn what he wrote,” said Richelieu.
“Tell me what he writes,” said Balsamo.
“It is fine, scrawling, bad writing.”
“Read, I will it!” said the magician’s imperative voice.