I had but remarked these details when the door again opened, to admit a short, slender man in whose black hair and beard the hand of time had scattered but little of that white dust that marks its passage. His face was pale, thin, and wrinkled, and his grey eyes had a nervous, restless look that dwelt not long on anything. He was dressed in black, with simple elegance, and his deep collar and ruffles were of the finest point.
“Welcome to Canaples, M. de Mancini!” he exclaimed, as he hurried forward, with a smile so winning that his countenance appeared transfigured by it. “Welcome most cordially! We had not hoped that you would arrive so soon, but fortunately my daughters, to whom you appear to have been of service at Choisy, warned me that you were journeying hither. Your apartments, therefore, are prepared for you, and we hope that you will honour Canaples by long remaining its guest.”
Andrea thanked him becomingly.
“In truth,” he added, “my departure from Paris was somewhat sudden, but I have a letter here from Monseigneur my uncle, which explains the matter.”
“No explanation is needed, my dear Andrea,” replied the old nobleman, abandoning the formalities that had marked his welcoming speech. “How left you my Lord Cardinal?” he asked, as he took the letter.
“In excellent health, but somewhat harassed, I fear, by the affairs of State.”
“Ah, yes, yes. But stay. You are not alone.” And Canaples's grey eyes shot an almost furtive glance of inquiry in my direction. A second glance followed the first and the Chevalier's brows were knit. Then he came a step nearer, scanning my face.
“Surely, surely, Monsieur,” he exclaimed before Andrea had time to answer him. “Were you not at Rocroi?”
“Your memory flatters me, Monsieur,” I replied with a laugh. “I was indeed at Rocroi—captain in the regiment of chévaux-légers whereof you were Mestre de Champ.”
“His name,” said Andrea, “is Gaston de Luynes, my very dear friend, counsellor, and, I might almost say, protector.”