The street was almost deserted, and as I slowly picked my way along the narrow pavement toward the Bouton d’Or, as my inn was called, I noticed that the rain had ceased and that the sky was opening above, showing the eternal blue beyond and casting a mellow light on the winding street, and on the gray and mottled façades of the old houses that towered on either hand.
The Bouton d’Or was situated about the middle of the street, a little beyond the hôtel of the Sieur de Richelieu. As I came up to it, I heard the sounds of a gay chorus from within, and hesitated a moment, doubtful if, under the circumstances, I should venture in. It was whilst I stood thus that I was startled by a voice.
“Alms! Alms! He who giveth unto the poor lendeth unto the Lord!”
I turned, and saw the lean figure of a Capuchin at my elbow. His hood, drawn up, almost concealed his features; but I caught a glimpse of a face, strangely pale, and of two fiery eyes that flashed out from beneath the shadow of his cowl. Though I was of the New Faith, I gave him some silver, and as he mumbled a benediction the chorus burst out again from within.
“They are gay,” I muttered to myself; but, low as my tone was, the words caught the ears of the friar.
“There is a time to be gay, and a time to be grave, my son—and ’tis better to drink than to conspire.”
And with these words he abruptly turned from me, and crossing the narrow road, began to descend the street, beating with his stick on the pavement, like a blind man feeling his way.
There was something so ominous in the tone of the man’s voice, so curious in his manner, that for a moment I had more than a mind to follow him and make him show his face and explain his words. But as I made a step forward, he accosted another passer-by with his strange call for alms, staying him by placing upon his shoulder a hand so thin and white that it seemed almost transparent.
“Bah!” I said to myself, as the new victim fumbled in his pocket, with an ill grace, to pay his dole. “’Tis a mad friar, after all!” And without more ado I entered the inn, to come face to face with the last man I desired to meet at the time. It was the young Baron de St. Cyergue, the son of Bohier, the late Receiver General of Normandy, and though good-hearted, he was a scandal-monger and a gossip, though amusing enough in his way, being much given to vaunting his exploits with the dice-box, in arms, and in love. He prided himself on being a viveur, and had almost dissipated a fine inheritance. It was this cackler that I met, standing in the hall, with a bottle of wine in each hand, and a face red and flushed.
“Vibrac!” he exclaimed, “welcome! welcome! I saw you at the Louvre this morning, and meant to ask you to join our party here, but you were engaged, and I could not get a chance to put in a word,” and he leered at me cunningly.