"She has in this case, monsieur."
He smiled grimly, and opened the packet. As he read his face assumed so malign and fierce an aspect that I had little difficulty in persuading myself of the truth of the stories of savage cruelty that I had heard of him. When he had finished he set down the paper, and asked calmly enough:
"Your message, monsieur?"
I told him, he taking it down word for word, and placing the paper carefully in a drawer, out of which he drew a parchment roll.
"You see this, monsieur? It is my patent as lieutenant of the South. After nearly forty years of service it was given to me. I have held it a month—and now—it is waste-paper." And with that he flung it into the drawer, which he shut with a clash.
"They have need of me in Italy again, they say; and when I am gone, mark my words, these psalm-singing Huguenots, these Chrysostoms, whom I have made skip like the hills in their own hymn, will be in Poitiers in a week." And he laughed harshly as he went on: "They fear I shall turn against them, and throw in my lot with these others—I—Blaise de Montluc! Tell them I am a soldier of my King, that I am but a poor gentleman of the South, who when his time is done will hang up his sword in his Chateau of Estillac, and die there, unless God answers his prayer and lets him die on the field."
I saw before me the sudden breaking of great hopes, and, as I then thought, the ruin of a great career, and stammered out: "Monsieur, you will soon be back."
He smiled, and then, as if pushing all aside from his mind: "This will at any rate make a chapter of my commentaries. I am writing them in the style of Caesar, whom I hope to surpass in this. At present, I have carried them as far as the sieges of Parma and La Mirandole by the armies of the Holy Father and the Emperor." With this he pointed at a pile of manuscript that lay on the table, as he added, with true Gascon conceit: "It is better that they who make history should write it rather than leave it to some scoundrel clerk, as I hear Vieilleville is doing."
He seemed to have forgotten his misfortune in the contemplation of his writing, and on my applauding his sentiment, he, looking at my arm, which was still in its sling, asked how I had hurt it. I told him briefly, and he listened in silence, until I gave him information of De Ganache and the Huguenots at Richelieu. Then he stopped me.
"Are you sure they were there last night?"