Oddly enough there came to the Chevalier a transitory picture of a young Jesuit priest, winding through the bleak hills on the way to Rouen.

The glories of the world, the love of women?
What romance lay smoldering beneath that black cassock?
What secret grief?
What sin?
Brother Jacques?
The name signified nothing.
Like all courtiers of his time, the Chevalier entertained the belief that when a handsome youth took the orders it was in the effort to bury some grief rather than to assist in the alleviation of the sorrows of mankind.
He walked on, skirting the Louvre and presently entering the courtyard of the Palais Royal.

The number of flambeaux, carriages and _caleches_ indicated to him that Mazarin was giving a party.

He lifted his cloak from his shoulders, shook it, and threw it over his arm, and ascended the broad staircase, his heart beating swiftly.

Would he see her?
Would she be in the gallery?
Would this night dispel the mystery?
At the first landing he ran almost into Captain de Guitaut, who was descending.
"Cevennes ?" cried the captain, frankly astounded.
"And freshly from Rome, my Captain.