“Bah!” I said to myself, as the new victim fumbled in his pocket, with an ill grace, to pay his dole. “’Tis a mad friar, after all!” And without more ado I entered the inn, to come face to face with the last man I desired to meet at the time. It was the young Baron de St. Cyergue, the son of Bohier, the late Receiver General of Normandy, and though good-hearted, he was a scandal-monger and a gossip, though amusing enough in his way, being much given to vaunting his exploits with the dice-box, in arms, and in love. He prided himself on being a _viveur_, and had almost dissipated a fine inheritance. It was this cackler that I met, standing in the hall, with a bottle of wine in each hand, and a face red and flushed. “Vibrac!” he exclaimed, “welcome! welcome! I saw you at the Louvre this morning, and meant to ask you to join our party here, but you were engaged, and I could not get a chance to put in a word,” and he leered at me cunningly. Cursing my ill-fortune at having fallen into the hands of this bore, I was about to make my excuses and exit at the same time; but he put a bottle on the floor and seized me by the lapel of my cloak. “Now you are not going to say you have another engagement! You must come and join us. There is Lignières, the brightest wit in Paris, and some one you will be glad to see, no less than your old friend Ponthieu of the Trans-Alpine Infantry, who served with you in Milan and the Sicilies; he is my mother’s cousin, and but arrived in Paris this morning.” I would have shaken him off but for the mention of Ponthieu’s name. He was Gascon of good family, an old friend of mine, and one of the most trusted agents of our party--a man whose reckless daring often succeeded where skilful plans failed, and it would, perhaps, be well to meet him. I hesitated and was lost, for St. Cyergue shouted out. In a moment the door of an adjoining room opened, and half a dozen men crowded around me, and I found myself shaking hands with Ponthieu, who asked twenty questions in a breath, and five minutes later we were seated round a table pledging our host’s health. To tell the truth, now that I had joined the party, I felt the better for it. It took me out of myself, and it was a pleasure to meet Ponthieu. We were able to exchange a word or so, and the Gascon told me he was leaving Paris that very night. “If you are caught, it will be Montfauçon!” I said, and Ponthieu smiled. “_Mon ami!_ I am leaving Paris in the train of Catherine herself.” I looked at him hardly, and was about to express my surprise and add another warning when St. Cyergue cut in, the wine passed, and the conversation became general.