“Her uncle--pouf! He is nothing--a man of words--a man of some wit perhaps, but a man who cleans Roquefort’s shoes. He has no spirit, not even enough to compel the girl’s obedience, else had she been Madame la Duchesse long ere this. Her father was a man, though,--Sieur de Brissac,--perhaps you have heard of him? He stood upright at Roquefort’s side, eye to eye, and his daughter hath his spirit. Great pity he is dead. “It behooves Roquefort to marry,” continued Fronsac after a moment. “He has no issue. His next of kin is a cousin--a Spaniard whom he hates. He hath been married once,--a virago from Valladolid, where his cousin also dwells. She made his life a burden, ’tis said, and with it all gave him no children. ’Twas more than man could bear. One morning she was found dead at the cliff-foot--an ugly story.” I understood now why Brissac’s face had hardened when he had scented a romance in the air. He destined the girl for other things--for a higher place. I could not blame him, and yet--and yet.... “But what was Brissac’s business here?” I asked at length. “There are strange rumors afoot, Marsan,” and my companion lowered his voice and glanced about to see that no one else could hear. “It is said that Roquefort, who, living there in the Pyrenees, is already more than half Spanish, is trying to persuade the towns of the Midi to revolt against the King and aid an army of invasion which Spain will provide. Brissac, ’tis said, came to Montauban to spread the intrigue here, where there is already a very pretty nest of heretics and malcontents. Fortunately, M. le Comte has a friend in Roquefort’s household--as you should know, since you brought a message from him--and learned of Brissac’s mission. This mission, you understand, this plan of Roquefort’s, is all in the air--there is no proof of it; but M. le Comte believed there were in Brissac’s keeping certain papers which would give all the proof needed. So he determined to corner Brissac, examine his papers, and if he found the ones he sought, lay them before the King. Besides, M. le Comte could kill two birds with one stone--he would do his King a signal service, and by the same stroke be rid forever of his enemy. But it was a matter which required finesse--so he determined himself to execute the clever little coup which you spoiled yestereve.” “Yes, yes,” I said, understanding for the first time, and fell a moment silent, turning over this bit of news. “Monsieur,” I asked, “what is the cause of the feud between the houses of Cadillac and Roquefort?” Fronsac shrugged his shoulders. “I do not know,” he answered. “It hath been in the blood for a century. It started, I have heard, in some absurd question of precedence. It is the old story of the frog and the mouse who found it impossible to dwell in peace together. If Roquefort hath sacked Cadillac, there will be some merry work ere we return to Montauban.”