Page:Cerise, a tale of the last century (IA cerisetaleoflast00whytrich).pdf/163

 the Musketeer, who has served his purpose, by the way, as I learn, so may I be rubbed out of the calculation; and I must drink no more of this excellent Burgundy, for I have promised to present myself in a lady's drawing-room, late as it is, before I go to bed."

Though somewhat confused by wine, the Regent understood his confidant's meaning perfectly well, and his eye kindled as he gathered its purport. "I will accompany you, little Abbé," he whispered with a hiccough, and a furtive glance at the ladies, lest they should overhear.

"Too late, my Prince," answered the other, "and useless besides, even for you, since I have not yet obtained permission. Oh! trust me. The fortress is well guarded, and has scarce ever been summoned; much less has it offered a parley."

The Duke looked disappointed, but emptied another bumper. He was rapidly arriving at the state Malletort desired, when a well-turned compliment would have induced him to sign away the crown of France.

"To-morrow then," he grunted, with his hands on the Abbé's shoulder. "The great Henry used to say—what used he to say? Something about waiting; you remember, Abbé. Basta! Reach me the Burgundy."

"To-morrow, Highness," answered Malletort, more and more respectfully, as his patron became less able to enforce respect. "At the hour agreed on, I will be at your orders with everything requisite. There is but one more detail, and though indispensable, I fear to press it with your Highness now, for it trenches on business, and your brain, like mine, must be somewhat heated with the Burgundy."

Probably no other consideration on earth would have induced the Duke to look at a paper after supper, but this remark about the Burgundy touched him nearly.

He took pride in his convivial powers, and remembering that Henri Quatre was said to have drunk a glass of red wine before his infant lips had tasted mother's milk, always vowed that he inherited from that ancestor a constitution with which the juice of the grape assimilated itself harmlessly as food.

"Burgundy, little Abbé!" he repeated, staring vacantly at Malletort, who had produced a small packet and an ink