I pushed back my chair and rose. The conversation was taking a turn that
was too unhealthy to be pursued within the walls of the Palais Mazarin,
where there existed, albeit the law books made no reference to it, the
heinous crime of lèse-Eminence--a crime for which more men had been broken
than it pleases me to dwell on.

"Your table, Master Andrea, needs no apology," I answered carelessly.
"Your wine, for instance, is beyond praise."

"Ah, yes! The wine! But, ciel! Monsieur," he ejaculated, for a moment
opening wide his heavy eyelids, "do you believe 't was Mazarin provided it?
Pooh! 'T was a present made me by M. de la Motte, who seeks my interest
with my Lord Cardinal to obtain for him an appointment in his Eminence's
household, and thus thinks to earn my good will. He's a pestilent
creature, this la Motte," he added, with a hiccough,--"a pestilent
creature; but, Sangdieu! his wine is good, and I'll speak to my uncle.
Help me up, De Luynes. Help me up, I say; I would drink the health of this
provider of wines."

I hurried forward, but he had struggled up unaided, and stood swaying with
one hand on the table and the other on the back of his chair. In vain did
I remonstrate with him that already he had drunk overmuch.

"'T is a lie!" he shouted. "May not a gentleman sit upon the floor from
choice?"

To emphasise his protestation he imprudently withdrew his hand from the
chair and struck at the air with his open palm. That gesture cost him his
balance. He staggered, toppled backward, and clutched madly at the