The opening of the tavern door cut short their conversation. A man entered rudely. He pressed and jostled every one in his efforts to reach Maître le Borgne. He was a man of splendid physical presence. His garments, though soiled and bedraggled by rough riding, were costly and rich. His spurs were bloody; and the dullness of the blood and the brightness of the steel were again presented in his fierce eyes. The face was not pleasing; it was too squarely hewn, too emotional; it indexed the heart too readily, its passions, its loves and its hates. There was cunning in the lips and caution in the brow; but the face was too mutable.
"The Comte d'Hérouville!" exclaimed the vicomte. "Saumaise, this looks bad. He is not a man to run away like you and me."
The new-comer spoke to the innkeeper, who raised his index finger and leveled it at Victor and the vicomte. On seeing them, D'Hérouville came over quickly.
"Messieurs," he began, "I am gratified to find you."
"The news!" cried the poet and the gamester.
"Devilish bad, Monsieur, for every one. The paper …"
"It is not here," interrupted the vicomte.
The count swore. "Mazarin has mentioned your name, Saumaise. You were a frequent visitor to the Hôtel de Brissac. As for me, I swore to a lie; but am yet under suspicion. Has either of you seen Madame de Brissac? I have traced her as far as Rochelle."
The vicomte looked humorously at the poet. Victor scowled. Of the two men he abhorred D'Hérouville the more. As for the vicomte, he laughed.
"You laugh, Monsieur?" said D'Hérouville, coldly. His voice was not unpleasant.