On the cold and silent night came ten solemn strokes from the clock of
St.-Germain l'Auxerrois. Then all was still again. The man came from
behind the curtain, his naked sword flashing evilly in the flickering
light. He took up the candle and walked coolly down the wide corridor.
The sureness of his step could have originated only in the perfect
knowledge of the topography of the hôtel. He paused before a door, his
ear to the keyhole.

"She sleeps! . . . and the wolf prowls without the door!" He mused
over the wayward path by which he had come into the presence of this
woman, who slept tranquilly beyond these panels of oak. He felt a glow
on his cheeks, a quickening of his pulse. To what lengths would he not
go for her sake? Sure of winning her love, yes, he would become great,
rise purified from the slough of loose living. He had never killed a
man dishonorably; he had won his duels by strength and dexterity alone.
He had never taken an advantage of a weakling; for many a man had
insulted him and still walked the earth, suffering only the slight
inconvenience of a bandaged arm or a tender cheek, and a fortnight or
so in bed. Condé had once said of him that there was not a more
courageous man in France; but he could not escape recalling Condé's
afterthought: that drink and reckless temper had kept him where he was.
There was in him a vein of madness which often burst forth in a blind
fury. It had come upon him in battle, and he had awakened many a time
to learn that he had been the hero of an exploit. He was not a
boaster; he was not a broken soldier. He was a man whose violent
temper had strewn his path with failures. . . . In love! Silently he
mocked himself. In love, he, the tried veteran, of a hundred
inconstancies! He smiled grimly beneath his mask. He passed on,
stealthily, till he reached a door guarded by two effigies of Francis
I. His sword accidentally touched the metal, and the soft clang