The Man in the Cloak

When he entered the Rue de Béthisy, he stopped, searched up and down
the thoroughfare. Far away to his right he saw wavering torches, but
these receded and abruptly vanished round a corner of the Rue des
Fossés St-Germain l'Auxerrois. He was alone. A hundred yards to his
left, on the opposite side of the street, stood a gloomy but
magnificent hôtel, one of the few in this quarter that was surrounded
by a walled court. The hôtel was dark. So far as the man in the grey
cloak could see, not a light filled any window. There were two gates.
Toward the smaller of the two the man cautiously directed his steps.
He tried the latch. The gate opened noiselessly, signifying frequent
use.

"So far, so good!"

An indecisive moment passed, as though the man were nerving himself for
an ordeal of courage and cunning. With a gesture resigning himself to
whatever might befall, he entered the court, careful to observe that
the way out was no more intricate than the way in.

"Now for the ladder. If that is missing, it's horse and away to Spain,
or feel the edge of Monsieur Caboche. Will the lackey be true? False
or true, I must trust him. Bernouin would sell Mazarin for twenty
louis, and that is what I have paid. Monsieur le Comte's lackey. It
will be a clever trick. Mazarin will pay as many as ten thousand
livres for that paper. That fat fool of a Gaston, to conspire at his
age! Bah; what a muddled ass I was, in faith! I, to sign my name in
writing to a cabal! Only the devil knows what yonder old fool will do
with the paper. Let him become frightened, let that painted play-woman
coddle him; and it's the block for us all, all save Gaston and Condé
and Beaufort. Ah, Madame, Madame, loveliest in all France, 'twas your
beautiful eyes. For the joy of looking into them, I have soiled a
fresh quill, tumbled into a pit, played the fool! And a silver crown
against a golden louis, you know nothing about politics or intrigue,
nor that that old fool of a husband is making a decoy of your beauty.
But my head cleared this morning. That paper must be mine. First,
because it is a guaranty for my head, and second, because it is likely
to fatten my purse. It will be simple to erase my name and substitute
another's. And this cloak! My faith, it is a stroke. To the devil
with Gaston and Condé and Beaufort; their ambitions are nothing to me,
since my head is everything."