“Two others?” he questioned, in an astonished voice. “But to whom do they belong?”
“To Mlle. Dacour,” I answered simply.
“Oh, my poor friend!” exclaimed Richelieu, and I heard him laughing. “Is your heart also in the toils? In faith, you have my sympathy. But come, the affair is not altogether hopeless. What do you know of Mlle. Dacour?”
“Nothing, absolutely nothing, but that she is beautiful and smiles divinely,” I cried. “Ah, tell me all you know!” and I hung upon every word.
“She was the daughter of Chevalier Louis-Armand Dacour, who died a year ago, leaving her an honored name, but little wherewith to support it. Mlle. de Valois found her, it seems, admired her, and they are now inseparable. I have heard something more concerning her which favors your cause,” added the duke, and he laughed again.
“Which favors my cause?” I asked, incredulously.
“She loves brave men,” said Richelieu. “She abhors the wits and roués who have congregated about the regent, and they tell many stories of the ways in which she makes them feel her scorn. She sighs for the days of the Great Cardinal, when good blows were stoutly given and cheerfully taken. Another exploit such as that of last night, de Brancas, and, believe me, her heart is yours.”
“No, no, you are jesting,” I murmured. Yet she had listened with sparkling eyes to the story of our escape. Well, if a sword could win a way to her heart, mine should not be idle.
“But come,” cried the duke, “we have talked enough of your affairs. Let us talk of mine. Can you guess what she has promised me?”
“What is it, monsieur?” I asked, with a sinking heart, for I had little doubt as to the answer.