Count von Wallenstein watched the retreating figure of the prelate till the door closed behind it; then he smiled at Mollendorf, who had not the courage to return it, and who stared at the parchment in his hand as if it were possessed of basilisk eyes.
“Monseigneur,” said the count, as he glanced through the contents of the document, “has forestalled me. Well, well; I do not begrudge him his last card. He has played it; let us go.”
“Perhaps,” faltered Mollendorf, “he has played his first card. What are you going to do?”
“Remain at home and wait. And I shall not have long to wait. The end is near.”
“Count, I tell you that the archbishop is not a man to play thus unless something strong were behind him. You do wrong not to fear him.”
Von Wallenstein recalled the warning of the Colonel of the cuirassiers. “Nevertheless, we are too strong to fear him.”
“Monseigneur is in correspondence with Austria,” said the minister of police, quietly.
“You said nothing of this before,” was the surprised reply.
“It was only this morning that I learned it.”
The count's gaze roamed about the room, and finally rested on the charred slips of paper in the grate. He shrugged.