‘That is what I do know,’ she answered, looking at me with a wondrous smile.
‘Ah! but you do not!’ I cried. ‘And besides, there is this—this between us.’ And I picked up the Cardinal’s letter. It had fallen on the floor. She turned a shade paler. Then she cried quickly,—
‘Open it! open it! It is not sealed nor closed.’
I obeyed mechanically, dreading with a horrible dread what I might see. Even when I had it open I looked at the finely scrawled characters with eyes askance. But at last I made it out. And it ran thus:—
‘THE KING’S PLEASURE IS THAT M. GIL DE BERAULT, HAVING MIXED HIMSELF UP IN AFFAIRS OF STATE, RETIRE FORTHWITH TO THE DEMESNE OF COCHEFORET, AND CONFINE HIMSELF WITHIN ITS LIMITS UNTIL THE KING’S PLEASURE BE FURTHER KNOWN.
‘THE CARDINAL DE RICHELIEU.’
We were married next day, and a fortnight later were at Cocheforet, in the brown woods under the southern mountains; while the great Cardinal, once more triumphant over his enemies, saw with cold, smiling eyes the world pass through his chamber. The flood tide of his prosperity lasted thirteen years from that time, and ceased only with his death. For the world had learned its lesson; to this hour they call that day, which saw me stand alone for all his friends, ‘The Day of Dupes.’