“The man is steel,” thought the Comte, hotly. “I’ll kill him yet.” Aloud, he said: “I have some idea, M. Capeluche. But I may not allude to it.”
The headsman fell silent.
“Closer examination of the writ,” he went on, finally, “shows that it is curiously indefinite in its recital as to the offense of which Mlle. Bonacieux has been guilty.”
The Comte laughed easily.
“M. de Briseout will be pleased to hear that the discriminating Capeluche has so found it.”
“And who is de Briseout?”
“The ingenious special pleader employed by the Cardinal to prepare the document. It is a work of art.”
“Then I can not be mistaken in assuming that one as clever as the Comte de Mousqueton and so recently come from Fontainebleau will be able to tell me the real nature of the case.”
The young nobleman was able to smile in the dark at the discernment of this strange man of blood.
“’Tis a proper question, M. Capeluche,” he returned. “Be it known to you, therefore, that no less a person that the Dauphin himself entertains the liveliest of sentiments toward Mlle. Bonacieux. The Cardinal, however, through his spies, early learned of the infatuation of the prince and privately remonstrated with him on the score that the mesalliance would definitely imperil the consummation of his proposed nuptials with Katharine of Austria, which, in turn, might embroil the two nations in war.