It was Richelieu's, the Cardinal's; but not as I had been wont to see it--keen, cold, acute, with intellect and indomitable will in every feature.

This face was contorted with the rage of impatience, was grim with the fever of haste, and the fear of death.

The eyes burned under the pale brow, the moustache bristled, the teeth showed through the beard; I could fancy the man crying 'Faster! Faster!' and gnawing his nails in the impotence of passion; and I shrank back as if I had been struck.

The next moment the outriders splashed me, the coach was a hundred paces ahead, and I was left chilled and wondering, foreseeing the worst, and no longer in any mood for Zaton's.
Such a revelation of such a man was enough to appal me, for a moment conscience cried out that he must have heard that Cocheforet had escaped him, and through me.

But I dismissed the idea as soon as formed.