"M. de Lalande," announced the secretary, and at a sign from the Cardinal withdrew.
Mazarin was writing, but, laying down his pen, he motioned me to a seat opposite him.
"You have breakfasted, have you not?" he asked.
"Yes, my Lord, thank you," I replied.
He smiled affably, and was plainly in good humour—the result perhaps of his morning's work. Suddenly this mood changed, the frown came back to his face, and he exclaimed sternly, "I had almost forgotten. Why were you so long on your errand this morning?"
"That is what I wished to speak of, your Eminence, but I am confident you will agree that I acted rightly."
"I dislike putting the cart before the horse," said he; "the verdict should follow the evidence. It will be better for you to relate the story first."
Picking up his pen again, he sat twisting it between his fingers, but looking me straight in the face, and listening intently to every word. He did not once attempt to interrupt, but preserved his patience until the end.
"Chut! my dear Martin," said he, when I had finished, just as if the astrologer were present; "we were mistaken. This young provincial has eyes in his head after all. M. de Lalande, not a word, not a syllable of this to any one. Should you babble, the Bastille is not so full but that it can accommodate another tenant. Now, let us go through the story again. As you rightly observe, it is most interesting, quite like a romance. These men were in the house; of that you are sure?"
I bowed.