'I take the risk. Monsieur d'Ivoy.' 'But not the rating, chevalier,' and the secretary, with a half-smile on his face, went out and left me to myself. In a few minutes he returned. 'The duke will see you, monsieur--this way, please.' '_Pardieu!_' I muttered to myself as I followed Ivoy, 'he keeps as much state as if he were the chancellor himself. However, I have a relish for Monseigneur's soup.' Ivoy led the way up a winding staircase of oak, so old that it was black as ebony, and polished as glass. At the end of this was a landing, where a couple of lackeys were lounging on a bench before a closed door. They sprang up at our approach, and Ivoy tapped gently at the door. 'Come in,' was the answer, given in a cold voice, and the next moment we were in the room. 'Monsieur le Chevalier d'Auriac,' and Ivoy had presented me. Sully inclined his head frigidly to my bow, and then motioned to Ivoy to retire. When we were alone, he turned to me with a brief 'Well?' 'I have information of the utmost importance which I wish to lay before you.' 'I hear that ten times a day from people. Will your story take long to tell?' 'That depends.' 'Then be seated for a moment, whilst I write a note.' I took the chair he pointed out, and he began to write rapidly. Whilst he was doing this I had a glance round the room. It was evidently the duke's working cabinet, and it bore everywhere the marks of the prim exactness of its master's character. There was no litter of papers on the table. The huge piles of correspondence on it were arranged neatly, one file above the other. All the books in the long shelves that lined the walls were numbered, the curtains were drawn back at exact angles to the curtain poles, the chairs were set squarely, there was not a thing out of place, not a speck of dust, not a blot on the brown leather writing-pad, on the polished walnut of the table before which Sully sat. On the wall opposite to him was a portrait of Madame de Sully. It was the only ornament in the room. The portrait itself showed a sprightly-looking woman with a laughing eye, and she looked down on her lord and master from the painted canvas with a merry smile on her slightly parted lips. As for the man himself, he sat squarely at his desk, writing rapidly with an even motion of his pen. He was plainly but richly dressed, without arms of any kind. His collar was ruffed in the English fashion, but worn with a droop, over which his long beard, now streaked with grey, fell almost to the middle of his breast. He was bald, and on each side of his high, wrinkled forehead there was a thin wisp of hair, brushed neatly back. His clear eyes looked out coldly, but not unkindly, from under the dark, arched eyebrows, and his short moustaches were carefully trimmed and twisted into two points that stuck out one on each side of his long straight nose. The mouth itself was small, and the lips were drawn together tightly, not, it seemed, naturally, but by a constant habit that had