had, during the short period of our association, grown fond of Andrea de Mancini. Indeed the wonted sweetness of the lad's temper, and the gentleness of his disposition, were such as to breed affection in all who came in contact with him. In a way, too, methought he had grown fond of me, and I had known so few friends in life,—truth to tell I fear me that I had few of the qualities that engender friendship,—that I was naturally prone to appreciate a gift that from its rareness became doubly valuable.
Hence was it that I trembled for the boy. He had shown aptitude with the foils, and derived great profit from my tuition, yet he was too raw by far to be pitted against so cunning a swordsman as Canaples.
I had but finished dressing when a coach rumbled down the street and halted by my door. Naturally I supposed that someone came to visit Coupri, the apothecary,—to whom belonged this house in which I had my lodging,—and did not give the matter a second thought until Michelot rushed in, with eyes wide open, to announce that his Eminence, Cardinal Mazarin, commanded my presence in the adjoining room.
Amazed and deeply marvelling what so extraordinary a visit might portend, I hastened to wait upon his Eminence.
I found him standing by the window, and received from him a greeting that was passing curt and cavalier.
“Has M. de Mancini been here?” he inquired peremptorily, disregarding the chair I offered him.
“He has but left me, Monseigneur.”
“Then you know, sir, of the harvest which he has already reaped from the indiscretion into which you led him last night?”
“If Monseigneur alludes to the affront put upon M. de Mancini touching his last night's indiscretion, by a bully of the Court, I am informed of it.”
“Pish, Monsieur! I do not follow your fine distinctions—possibly this is due to my imperfect knowledge of the language of France, possibly to your own imperfect acquaintance with the language of truth.”
“Monseigneur!”
“Faugh!” he cried, half scornfully, half peevishly. “I
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