key was turned in the lock.
“Who is that?” cried the duke, rushing to the door and drawing the bolt.
“By Heaven!” replied a voice from outside; “I find that a strange question. Who are you yourself? This is pleasant! I return to my own room, and am asked who I am!”
“Is it you, Monsieur de la Mole?”
“Yes, it is I, without a doubt. But who are you?”
While La Mole was expressing his surprise at finding his room occupied, and while he was trying to discover its new occupant, the Duc d’Alençon turned quickly, one hand on the lock, the other on the key.
“Do you know Monsieur de la Mole?” he asked of De Mouy.
“No, monseigneur.”
“Does he know you?”
“I think not.”
“In that case it will be all right. Appear to be looking out of the window.”
De Mouy obeyed in silence, for La Mole was beginning to grow impatient, and was knocking on the door with all his might.
The Duc d’Alençon threw a last glance towards De Mouy, and seeing that his back was turned, he opened the door.
“Monseigneur le Duc!” cried La Mole, stepping back in surprise. “Oh, pardon, pardon, monseigneur!”
“It is nothing, monsieur; I needed your room to receive a visitor.”
“Certainly, monseigneur, certainly. But allow me, I beg you, to take my cloak and hat from the bed, for I lost both to-night on the quay of the Grève, where I was attacked by robbers.”
“In fact, monsieur,” said the prince, smiling, himself handing to La Mole the articles asked for, “you are very poorly accommodated here. You have had an encounter with some very obstinate fellows, apparently!”
The duke handed to La Mole the cloak and the hat. The young man bowed and withdrew to the antechamber to change his clothes, paying no attention to what the duke was doing in his room; for it was an ordinary occurrence at the Louvre for the rooms of the gentlemen to be used as reception-rooms by the prince to whom the latter were attached.
De Mouy then approached the duke, and both listened for La Mole to finish and go out; but when the latter had changed his clothes, he himself saved them all further trouble by drawing near to the door.
“Pardon me, monseigneur,” said he, “but did your highness meet the Count de Coconnas on your way?”
“No, count, and yet he was at service this morning.”
“In that case they will assassinate me,” said La Mole to himself as he went away.
The duke heard the noise of his retreating steps; then opening the door and drawing De Mouy after him:
“Watch him going away,” said he, “and try to copy his inimitable walk.”
“I will do my best,” replied De Mouy. “Unfortunately I am not a lady’s man, but a soldier.”
“At all events I shall expect you in this corridor before midnight. If the chamber of my gentlemen is free, I will receive you there; if not, we will find another.”
“Yes, monseigneur.”
“Until this evening then, before midnight.”
“Until this evening, before midnight.”
“Ah! by the way, De Mouy, swing your right arm a good deal as you walk. This is a peculiar trick of Monsieur de la Mole’s.”
Chapter 24.
The Rue Tizon and the Rue Cloche Percée.
La Mole hurriedly left the Louvre, and set out to search Paris for poor Coconnas.
His first move was to repair to the Rue de l’Arbre Sec and to enter Maître La Hurière’s, for La Mole remembered that he had often repeated to the Piedmontese a certain Latin motto which was meant to prove that Love, Bacchus, and Ceres are gods absolutely necessary to us, and he hoped that Coconnas, to follow up the Roman aphorism, had gone to the Belle Étoile after a night which must have been as full for his friend as it had been for himself.
La Mole found nothing at La Hurière’s except the reminder of the assumed obligation. A breakfast which was offered with good grace was eagerly accepted by our gentleman, in spite of his anxiety. His stomach calmed in default of his mind, La Mole resumed his walk, ascending the bank of the Seine like a husband searching for his drowned wife. On reaching the quay of the Grève, he recognized the place where, as he had said to Monsieur d’Alençon, he had been stopped during his nocturnal tramp three or four hours before. This was no unusual thing in Paris, older by a hundred years than that in which Boileau was awakened at the sound of a ball piercing his window shutter. A bit of the plume from his hat remained on the battle-field. The sentiment of possession is innate in man. La Mole had ten plumes each more beautiful than the last, and yet he stopped to pick up that one, or, rather, the sole fragment of what remained of it, and was contemplating it with a pitiful air when he heard the sound of heavy steps approaching, and rough voices ordering him to stand aside. La Mole raised his head and perceived a litter preceded by two pages and accompanied by an outrider. La Mole thought he recognized the litter, and quickly stepped aside.
The young man was not mistaken.
“Monsieur de la Mole!” exclaimed a sweet voice from the litter, while a hand as white and as smooth as satin drew back the curtains.
“Yes, madame, in person,” replied La Mole bowing.
“Monsieur de la Mole with a plume in his hand,” continued the lady in the litter. “Are you in love, my dear monsieur, and are you recovering lost traces?”
“Yes, madame,” replied La Mole, “I am in love, and very much so. But just now these are my own traces that I have found, although they are not those for which I am searching. But will your majesty permit me to inquire after your health?”
“It is excellent, monsieur; it seems to me that I have never been better. This probably comes from the fact of my having spent the night in retreat.”
“Ah! in retreat!” said La Mole, looking at Marguerite strangely.
“Well, yes; what is there surprising in that?”
“May I, without indiscretion, ask you in what convent?”
“Certainly, monsieur, I make no mystery of it; in the convent of the Annonciade. But what are you doing here with this startled air?”
“Madame, I too passed the night in retreat, and in the vicinity of the same convent. This morning I am looking for my friend who has disappeared, and in seeking him I came upon this plume.”
“Whom
