- horn from his pockets. "Burgundy, Beaune, brandy—these
do but serve to clear the brains of a Bourbon! Give me the paper!"
"It is only your signature, Highness," said Malletort, sitting completely round, so as to interpose his person between Madame de Parabere and the sheet under his hand. "I can fill it up afterwards, to save you further trouble."
But a drunkard's cunning is the last faculty that forsakes him. Though the paper danced and wavered beneath his gaze, he detected at once that it was a Lettre de cachet, formidable, henceforth, from the edict issued that day in Council.
Without troubling himself to inquire how the document came into Malletort's possession, who had indeed free access to his bureau, he wagged his head gravely, exclaiming, with the good-humoured persistency of inebriety—
"No! no! little Abbé. A thousand times no! I fill in the names myself. Oh! I am Regent of France. I know what I am doing. Here, give me the pen."
He scrawled his signature on the page, and waited for Malletort to speak.
The latter glanced furtively round—Madame de Sabran was laughing, the Count listening, Madame de Parabére yawning. No one seemed to pay attention. Nevertheless he was still cautious. Mentioning no names, he looked expressively at the Musketeer's vacant place, while he whispered—"We have done with him. He has fulfilled his task. Let him be well taken care of. He deserves it, and it is indispensable."
"What is indispensable, must be!" answered the Duke carelessly, and filled in the name of the victim on the blank space left for it.
Then he sprinkled some blue sand from the Abbé's portable writing-case over the characters; and because they did not dry fast enough, turned the sheet face downwards on the white table-cloth, and passed his wrist once or twice across the back.
When he lifted it, the ink had marked the damask, which was of the finest texture and rarest pattern in Europe.
Malletort never neglected a precaution. Reaching his
