At the table sat two men of striking personal appearance.
One was a tall, venerable man with white beard and moustache, broad, high forehead, and calm, thoughtful, gray eyes. He was older than his companion, and the deeply-furrowed brow bespoke a life of much care, perhaps sorrow. He was dressed in a brown robe, held loosely round the middle by silken cords; he wore slippers on his feet, and a tasselled cap partly covered his scanty white hair. I put him down as the astrologer.
The second man attracted and repelled me at the same time. He was in the prime of life and undeniably handsome, while there was a look of sagacity, almost of craft, in his face.
"A strong man," I thought, looking into his wonderful eyes. "Not brave, perhaps, but dogged and tenacious. A man of cunning, too, who will play a knave at his own game and beat him. And yet, somehow, one would expect to find him occupied with paint-brush or guitar, rather than with the affairs of State."
Stories of the powerful Cardinal had reached even my quiet home, but I had never met him, and now stood looking at his face longer perhaps than was in keeping with good manners.
"Hum!" said he, watching me closely, "you are very young for a conspirator; you should be still with your tutor. What is your name?"
"Albert de Lalande," I replied.
"De Lalande!" he echoed in surprise. "The son of Charles de Lalande?"
"Your Eminence is thinking of my cousin Henri."
"Pouf! Are there two of you? So much the worse; one of the family is sufficient. Eh, Martin?"