Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer UNDER THE RED ROBE By Stanley J. Weyman Transcriber’s Note: In this Etext, text in italics has been written in capital letters. Many French words in the text have accents, etc. which have been omitted. CONTENTS CHAPTER I. AT ZATON’S CHAPTER II. AT THE GREEN PILLAR CHAPTER III. THE HOUSE IN THE WOOD CHAPTER IV. MADAM AND MADEMOISELLE CHAPTER V. REVENGE CHAPTER VI. UNDER THE PIC DU MIDI CHAPTER VII. A MASTER STROKE CHAPTER VIII. A MASTER STROKE--Continued CHAPTER IX. THE QUESTION CHAPTER X. CLON CHAPTER XI. THE ARREST CHAPTER XII. THE ROAD TO PARIS CHAPTER XIII. AT THE FINGER-POST CHAPTER XIV. ST MARTIN’S EVE CHAPTER XV. ST MARTIN’S SUMMER UNDER THE RED ROBE CHAPTER I. AT ZATON’S ‘Marked cards!’ There were a score round us when the fool, little knowing the man with whom he had to deal, and as little how to lose like a gentleman, flung the words in my teeth. He thought, I’ll be sworn, that I should storm and swear and ruffle it like any common cock of the hackle. But that was never Gil de Berault’s way. For a few seconds after he had spoken I did not even look at him. I passed my eye instead--smiling, BIEN ENTENDU--round the ring of waiting faces, saw that there was no one except De Pombal I had cause to fear; and then at last I rose and looked at the fool with the grim face I have known impose on older and wiser men. ‘Marked cards, M. l’Anglais?’ I said, with a chilling sneer. ‘They are used, I am told, to trap players--not unbirched schoolboys.’ ‘Yet I say that they are marked!’ he replied hotly, in his queer foreign jargon. ‘In my last hand I had nothing. You doubled the stakes. Bah, sir, you knew! You have swindled me!’ ‘Monsieur is easy to swindle--when he plays with a mirror behind him,’ I answered tartly. At that there was a great roar of laughter, which might have been heard in the street, and which brought to the table everyone in the eating-house whom his voice had not already attracted. But I did not relax my face. I waited until all was quiet again, and then waving aside two or three who stood between us and the entrance, I pointed gravely to the door. ‘There is a little space behind the church of St Jacques, M. l’Etranger,’ I said, putting on my hat and taking my cloak on my arm. ‘Doubtless you will accompany me thither?’ He snatched up his hat, his face burning with shame and rage. ‘With pleasure!’ he blurted out. ‘To the devil, if you like!’ I thought the matter arranged, when the Marquis laid his hand on the young fellow’s arm and checked him. ‘This must not be,’ he said, turning from him to me with his grand, fine-gentleman’s air. ‘You know me, M. de Berault. This matter has gone far enough.’