We little thought
that we were not destined to meet again for years.
Yvonne's adieu was cold and formal--so cold and formal that it seemed to
rob the sunshine of its glory for me as I stepped out into the open air.
After all, what mattered it? I was a fool to have entertained a single
tender thought concerning her.
CHAPTER XIX
OF MY RETURN TO PARIS
Scant cause is there for me to tarry over the details of my return to
Paris. A sad enough journey was it; as sad for my poor Michelot as for
myself, since he rode with one so dejected as I.
Things had gone ill, and I feared that when the Cardinal heard the story
things would go worse, for Mazarin was never a tolerant man, nor one to be
led by the gospel of mercy and forgiveness. For myself I foresaw the rope
--possibly even the wheel; and a hundred times a day I dubbed myself a fool
for obeying the voice of honour with such punctiliousness when so grim a
reward awaited me. What mood was on me--me, Gaston de Luynes, whose honour
had been long since besmirched and tattered until no outward semblance of
honour was left?
But swift in the footsteps of that question would come the answer--Yvonne.
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