“I believe I am not mistaken, Monsieur,” said the Duke, very stately and magnificent, with his hand on his sword—my heart went out to him—looking hard at the Marquis. “I am sure,” added the Queen in her silvery voice—and you would have thought she were conferring the greatest favor in her power upon the wretched du Trémigon—“that the Duke is right. Monsieur du Trémigon,” she went on, with a woman’s spitefulness—but indeed I could not blame her, “is no more desirous of marrying Mademoiselle de Villars than he is of pressing the charge of highway robbery against Monsieur Burnham.” Du Trémigon could not trust himself to speak again. He clenched his hands and bowed low before the Queen. “Furthermore,” continued the Duke imperturbably, “Monsieur du Trémigon wishes Your Majesty’s permission to withdraw from Paris and retire to his estates.” “As the Marquis pleases,” said the King indifferently. Had I been King I should have been consumed with curiosity to know what this was all about, but His Majesty cared little about it, apparently, for after turning his back on du Trémigon, who backed out of the room, he said to Dr. Franklin: “Now that we have settled this affair, doctor, I want you to look at a lock in my cabinet that interests me greatly. Gamain brought it today. Its mechanism is curious and complex. It will interest a scientific man like yourself, I am sure.” “I shall be glad to attend Your Majesty.” “Give me leave, Sire,” again said the Duc de Rivau-Huet. “Your Majesty,” continued the old man, standing very erect, “the Marquis du Trémigon averred that he was in my granddaughter’s apartments until a late hour the other night.” “It is false,” said the Queen. “Madame, I know that. What I wish to know is, who was there?” “Monsieur! Before them all!” exclaimed Mademoiselle, startled beyond measure by this surprising development. This unlucky speech in itself was a confession. “The King is the fountain of nobility in the land,” continued the Duke, striving to regain his composure. “You are a maid of honor to the Queen, Mademoiselle. That gentleman”—he pointed to me—“heard the accusation and denied it. These are his friends. Here is some mystery. I wish an explanation.” “But, Duke—” began the King, with a puzzled look. “I crave Your Majesty’s pardon. Even royalty may give place to the feelings of a grandsire. Will you allow me to conduct this affair in my own way?” “Go on,” said the King. “I am satisfied that the Marquis du Trémigon, whom I shall see later, with the King’s permission——” “I will give you a _lettre de cachet_ to the Bastile for him, if you like.” “Thank you, Sire. Monsieur du Trémigon was not there, but I insist someone was, and I demand to know who.” No one spoke for a moment. “Éspiau, you know?” “I have nothing to say, Monsieur le Duc,” replied the old servant, turning pale. “Will no one tell me?” cried the old man, grief in his heart, appeal in his tones, shame in his bearing.