“But St. Auban?” he gasped. “Where is he?”
“In heaven, I hope—but I doubt it sadly.”
“You have killed him?”
There and then, as briefly as I might, I told him, whilst the others stood by to listen, how I had come upon the Marquis in the château the night before and what had passed thereafter.
“And now,” I said, as I cut his bonds, “it grieves me to charge you with an impolite errand to his Eminence, but—”
“I'll not return to him,” he burst out. “I dare not. Mon Dieu, you have ruined me, Luynes!”
“Then come with me, and I'll build your fortunes anew and on a sounder foundation. I have an influential letter in my pocket that should procure us fortune in the service of the King of Spain.”
He needed little pressing to fall in with my invitation, so we set the sergeant free, and him instead I charged with a message that must have given Mazarin endless pleasure when it was delivered to him. But he had the Canaples estates wherewith to console himself and his never-failing maxim that “chi canta, paga.” Touching the Canaples estates, however, he did not long enjoy them, for when he went into exile, two years later, the Parliament returned them to their rightful owner.
The Chevalier de Canaples approached me timidly.
“Monsieur,” quoth he, “I have wronged you very deeply. And this generous rescue of one who has so little merited your aid truly puts me to so much shame that I know not what thanks to offer you.”