He noted, too, the crumpled paper he carried half-hidden in his hand; and the Captain's countenance grew dark.

He drew a step nearer, and his hand reached softly for his dagger.

But his voice, when he spoke, was smooth as the surface of the pleasure-loving Court, smooth as the externals of all things in Paris that summer evening.
"He is here still," he said.

"Have you news, M.de Tignonville ?" "News ?" "For M.de Rochefoucauld ?" Tignonville laughed.

"No," he said.