Immediately the golden doors were flung open, and Bonnivet entered from the supper-room, followed by a company of soldiers.

Gonzague turned to Bonnivet, indignant and bewildered. "What does this mean?" he gasped.

Bonnivet’s answer was to salute with his sword, as he announced: "His majesty the king!" And through the double line of soldiers Louis of France entered the room with the Princess de Gonzague on his arm.

The king looked with astonishment at the strange scene before him—the fainting women, the two camps of armed men, the scattered furniture. The Princess de Gonzague looked only at the girl, who now hung so lovingly upon the arm of Lagardere.

"Why have I been sent for?" the king asked.

And instantly Lagardere answered him: "To witness my restoration of Mademoiselle Gabrielle de Nevers to her mother." As he spoke he moved towards the princess, and gave Gabrielle to her out-stretched arms.

The Princess gave a cry of joy. "She has the face of Louis! She is my child!"

Gonzague tried to speak, and failed; tried to speak again, and succeeded: "Your highness, I again declare that I gave the true Gabrielle de Nevers to her mother. I have the page torn from the register of the chapel of Caylus in this sealed packet." As he spoke he held out a small sealed packet, which he had drawn from his breast.

The king turned to Lagardere. "What do you say to this?"

Lagardere answered: "That I have kept my word. I have given back her daughter to the princess. I will now unmask the murderer."

Again the king questioned him: "Where are your witnesses?"

Lagardere turned and pointed with his drawn sword to Gonzague: "You are the first."

Gonzague, trying hard to recover his composure, raged at him: "Madman!"

Lagardere turned to the king and spoke more solemnly: "The second is in the grave."

Gonzague laughed. "The dead cannot speak."

Lagardere still looked menacingly at Gonzague. "To-night the dead will speak. The proofs of your guilt are in that sealed packet, stolen from me by assassins in your pay."

Gonzague turned to the king, protesting: "Sire!"

Lagardere interrupted him: "Monseigneur, he is going to say that that packet contains only the birth-lines of Mademoiselle de Nevers—but there is more than that."

Louis of Orleans turned his steady gaze on Louis of Gonzague, and read little to comfort him in the twitching face of his life-long friend. "Break the seals, Louis," he commanded.

Lagardere spoke, exultingly: "Yes, break the seals and read your doom, assassin. The packet contains only the birth-lines of Mademoiselle de Nevers, but still it contains the proof I ask. As Nevers lay dying in my arms, he dipped his finger in his blood and traced on the parchment the name of his murderer. Open the packet and see what name is there."

Now, while he was speaking, Gonzague began to tremble like a man that has the trembling sickness; but as Lagardere continued he seemed by a desperate effort to stiffen himself, and, moving slowly, unobserved by those present, who were for the most part busy with looking upon Lagardere, he neared a candelabrum. As Lagardere uttered his last command, Gonzague thrust the packet that he held into the flame of the candle, and in a moment the flame ran along the paper, lapping it and consuming it. The king and Lagardere both saw the despairing deed.

The king was the first to speak. "Louis!" he cried, and could say no more.

Gonzague dropped the burning paper from his fingers, and it fell in ashes upon the floor.

Lagardere lifted his sword in triumph. "The dead speaks! There was nothing written on that paper. His name was not there, but his own deed has set it there."

The eyes of all were fixed upon the face of Gonzague, and the face of Gonzague was an ugly sight to see. Hatred and despair struggled there for mastery—hatred and despair, and the hideous sense of hopeless, ignominious, public failure after a lifetime of triumphant crime.

"Louis!" cried the king again. "Louis! Assassin!"

In a moment Gonzague’s sword was unsheathed, and he leaped across the space that divided him from Lagardere, striking furiously for Lagardere’s heart. But Lagardere was ready for him, and, with a familiar trick of the fencing-schools, wrenched Gonzague’s weapon from his fingers and flung it to the floor. A dozen hands seized Gonzague—the hands of those that once had been proud to call themselves his friends.

Lagardere turned to the king, appealingly: "Monseigneur, I cry a favor. Let me support this quarrel with my sword, and God defend the right."

The king was silent for a few seconds, trying to set himself right with a world that had suddenly changed for him. Surely, it would be better to let it end so, whatever came of it. He turned to Lagardere, and bowed his head in silent approval: "As you will."

Suddenly, then, the Princess de Gonzague, clinging to the child in her arms, cried out, calling to Chavernay: "Monsieur de Chavernay, in yonder alcove lies the sword of my dead husband. Fetch it, and give it to Monsieur de Lagardere."

In a frightful silence Chavernay crossed the room, entered the alcove, and came forth holding the sword of Louis de Nevers in his hand—the sword that Louis de Nevers had used so valiantly on the night of Caylus. Silently he offered it to Lagardere, and silently Lagardere, giving the weapon he held to Cocardasse, took the sword of Nevers from the hands of Chavernay. Thereafter Lagardere stooped and picked up the fallen sword of Gonzague. Then, advancing towards his enemy, he made a sign to those that held him to release their captive—a sign that was immediately obeyed. He held out the weapon by its blade to Gonzague, who caught it. In another moment the two men were engaged in combat.

On the walls the impassive portraits of the Three Louis looked on while one of the Three Louis fought for his shameful life, while another of the Three Louis sat in heart-broken judgment upon him, and while the widow of another of the Three Louis sat clasping in her arms the child she had surrendered in the moat of Caylus so many years ago.

Gonzague was a fine swordsman, and Gonzague fought for his life, but he did not fight long. Suddenly Lagardere’s arm and Lagardere’s sword seemed to extend, the blade gleamed in the flare of the flambeaux, and Gonzague reeled and dropped.

"Nine," said Cocardasse, thoughtfully.

Passepoil placed his forefinger between his brows. "The thrust of Nevers," he murmured.

Lagardere lifted his blood-dyed sword and saluted the picture of Louis of Nevers. "After the lackeys the master. Nevers, I have kept my word."

Then he let fall his weapon, for the soft arms of Gabrielle were about his neck.

THE END