"Oh, no, I am not the Devil, Monseigneur. To prove it to you and to reassure you, I ask you to give me fifty pistoles. Now, if I were the Devil, should I have any need of money, and couldn't I draw myself out of all my scrapes with my tail?"
"That's true," said the constable; "and here are your fifty pistoles."
"Which I have well earned, Monseigneur, by gaining the confidence of Vicomte d'Exmès; for although I am not the Devil, I am a bit of a sorcerer, and have only to don a certain brown doublet, and draw on certain yellow breeches, to make Vicomte d'Exmès speak to me as if I were an old friend and a tried confidant."
"Hm! all this has a smack of the gallows," said the constable.
"Master Nostradamus, just from seeing me pass in the street, predicted for me, after one glance at my face, that I should die between heaven and earth. So I resign myself to my destiny, and devote it to your interests, Monseigneur. To know that one is to be hung is a priceless advantage. A man who is sure of meeting his end on the gallows, fears nothing, not even the gallows themselves. To begin with, I have made myself the double of Vicomte d'Exmès's squire. I told you that I would accomplish miracles! Now, do you know, or can you guess, who this viscount is?"
"Parbleu! a lawless partisan of the Guises."
"Better than that. The accepted lover of Madame de Castro."
"What's that you say, villain? How do you know that?"
"I am the viscount's confidant, as I told you. It is I who generally carry his notes to the fair one, and bring back the reply. I am on the best of terms with the lady's maid, who is astonished only to have so changeable a lover,—bold as a page one day, and the next day as shy as a nun. The viscount and Madame de Castro meet at the queen's levees three times a week, and write every day. However, you may believe me or not, their affection is absolutely pure. Upon my word, I should be interested for them, if I were not interested for myself. They love each other like cherubs, and have from childhood, so far as I can make out. I have opened their letters now and then, and they have really moved me. Madame Diane is jealous; and of whom, do you suppose, Monseigneur? Of the queen! But she is altogether wrong, poor child. It may be that the queen thinks about Monsieur d'Exmès—"
"Arnauld," the constable interposed, "you are a slanderer!"