“You have taught the boy to become a sot; in time, were he to remain under your guidance, I make no doubt but that he would become a gamester and a duellist as well. I was mad, perchance, to give him into your care; but I have the good fortune to be still in time, before the mischief has sunk farther, to withdraw him from it, and to cast you back into the kennel from which I picked you.”      

       “Your Eminence does not mean—”      

       “As God lives I do!” he cried. “You shall quit the Palais Royal this very night, M. de Luynes, and if ever I find you unbidden within half a mile of it, I will do that which out of a misguided sense of compassion I do not do now—I will have you flung into an oubliette of the Bastille, where better men than you have rotted before to-day. Per Dio! do you think that I am to be fooled by such a thing as you?”      

       “Does your Eminence dismiss me?” I cried aghast, and scarce crediting that such was indeed the extreme measure upon which he had determined.     

       “Have I not been plain enough?” he answered with a snarl.     

       I realised to the full my unenviable position, and with the realisation of it there overcame me the recklessness of him who has played his last stake at the tables and lost. That recklessness it was that caused me to shrug my shoulders with a laugh. I was a soldier of fortune—or should I say a soldier of misfortune?—as rich in vice as I was poor in virtue; a man who lived by the steel and parried the blows that came as best he might, or parried them not at all—but never quailed.     

       “As your Eminence pleases,” I answered coolly, “albeit methinks that for one who has shed his blood for France as freely as I have done, a little clemency were not unfitting.”      

       He raised his eyebrows, and his lips curled in a malicious sneer.     

       “You come of a family, M. de Luynes,” he said slowly, “that is famed for having shed the blood of others for France more freely than its own. You are, I believe, the nephew of Albert de Luynes. Do you forget the Marshal d'Ancre?”      

       I felt the blood of anger hot in my face as I made haste to answer him:     

       

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