“Jean de Brancas?” and Richelieu glanced at me with a little air of surprise. “You are from Poitiers?”
“Yes, from Poitiers,” I answered, looking at him with astonishment. “But may I ask how you know that, monsieur?”
“And you are new to Paris, I suppose?” he continued, smiling and disregarding my question.
“I came here but a week ago, monsieur.”
“May I ask for what?” and he smiled yet more broadly. “But I do not need to ask. It was for adventure, was it not? So many youths come here for that; and though most of them find adventures in great number, they are seldom to their liking.”
“That is my case precisely, monsieur,” I said, “with the exception of this evening, which is greatly to my liking.”
“Perhaps I may find you more of the same kind,” and his face darkened grimly. “There are many such, if one but knows where to look for them. May I ask concerning your family, monsieur?”
“My father died a week before I started for Paris,” I answered, simply. “My mother had preceded him to the grave by two years. I had no brothers nor sisters.”
“Ah,” he said, not unkindly, “and what heritage did your father leave you?”
“An honorable name, his sword and some skill in wielding it, monsieur,” I answered, proudly.