'Monsieur d'Auriac, a time will come when you will have reason to regret the words you have used towards me. I do not mean regret them in the place you have mentioned, but in your heart. In this business the honour of Bethune as well as the honour of the King is at stake. Do you think I am likely to throw my hazard like an infant?' I was silent, but a dim ray of hope flickered up in my heart as I looked at the man before me, and felt, I know not why, in the glance of his eye, in the tone of the voice, in his very gestures, that here was one who had conquered himself, and who knew how to rule. 'Now, sir,' he went on, the animation in his tone dropping to a cold and frigid note, 'proceed with your tale.' It was a thing easier ordered than done, but I managed it somehow, trying to be as brief as possible, without missing a point. Sully listened without a movement of his stern features, only his eyes seemed to harden like crystal as I spoke of Biron and Zamet. When I told what I heard of the death of Madame de Beaufort, he turned his head to the open window and kept it thus until I ended. When he looked back again at me, however, there was not a trace of emotion in his features, and his voice was as cold and measured as ever as he asked: 'And your reward for this news, chevalier?' 'Is not to be measured in pistoles, monseigneur.' 'I see; and is this all?' His tone chilled me. 'It is all--no,' and with a sudden thought, 'give me twenty men, and in a week I put the traitors in your hands.' He fairly laughed out. '_Corb[oe]uf!_ Monsieur le chevalier, do you want to set France ablaze?' 'It seems, monseigneur, that the torch is held at Anet,' I answered a little sulkily. 'But not lighted yet; leave the dealing with that to me. And, monsieur, the King is at Fontainebleau, and for a month nothing can be done. And see here, monsieur, I can do nothing for you; you follow. At the end of a month go and see the King. Tell him your story, and, if he believes you, claim your reward. I will go so far as to promise that you will be received.' All the little hope I had begun to gather fluttered away at these words like a scrap of paper cast in the wind. 'Monseigneur,' I said, and my voice sounded strangely even to my own ears, 'in a month it will be too late.' 'Leave that to me,' he answered. 'I have a reminder always before my eyes,' and he pointed through the open window in the direction of a house that towered above the others surrounding it. 'I do not follow,' I stammered. 'That is the Hotel de Zamet,' he said grimly, and I thought I understood why he had turned to the window when I spoke of Madame de Beaufort's death. I rose with a sigh I could barely repress: 'Then there is nothing for me to do but to wait?' 'You will not lose by doing so.' 'I thank you, monseigneur; but there is one little favour I ask.' 'And that is?' 'The King's Peace until I see the King.'