"Ah, bah! His eyes! Curse them, and him, too! He is a traitor."
"All the same, he is handsome. I wonder how many women love him?"
But now they stood apart from the courtyard to look at a troop of the Mousquetaires Noirs riding away from the precincts of the court itself—where they had been on guard all day—and to admire their trappings and bravery. And the pale-faced girl, who seemed—like many other pale-faced, cadaverous girls!—to have a great appreciation of manly beauty, tugged at her companion's arm, and bade her observe the two handsome officers in conversation under the gateway.
"See, Manon, see!" she exclaimed. "There is the one who said he was son to the Duc de——"
"I hate all dukes," interrupted the other, "and all the noblesse. They grind the poor."
"Yet he seemed kind. He would have saved that one, I do believe, if he could. And how he spoke to the judge—as he himself speaks to others—like to a dog! And his companion, the officer of Mousquetaires who does not follow the troop. Mon Dieu! il est beau aussi. How many handsome men we see to-day!"
"Ah! voyons," exclaimed the other, grimacing irritably, "les beaux! les beaux! Nothing but les beaux! Some day, Babette, you will regret your admiration of the men."
"He looks pale and troubled, does that mousquetaire," the girl replied, taking no heed of the elder woman's reproofs; and then they passed on to the foul quarter of Paris where they dwelt, and where dukes' sons and handsome mousquetaires did not often obtrude themselves.
Had she been able to overhear the commencement of the conversation between De Mortemart and that officer of Mousquetaires she would probably not have wondered at the pallor which overspread the latter's face, nor at his look of trouble.
When the young fellow had fled out of the court, unable to remain and hear that doom pronounced on St. Georges, which he knew must come, he had gone straight to the guardroom with the intention of removing the three men of his troop whom he had brought with him to Paris in charge of their prisoner. Their work was done in Paris, he knew; it was best they should take the road hack to Rambouillet at once. It was but eight leagues, and the summer nights were long; they could ride that easily and regain their quarters almost without halting.