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Updated: July 7, 2025
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!
Terror and fright vanished from her face and her eyes, leaving the one impassive and the other cold. She returned to the body and the look she cast on it was without pity or regret. Alive, she had detested him; dead, she could gaze on him with indifference. He had died, leaving her the legacy of the headsman's ax. And his play-woman? would she weep or laugh? . . . She was free.
"The Saint Laurent," answered the vicomte, playing out the lie. Victor's glance was sullen. "Wait a moment, man!" cried the vicomte, catching the count's cloak. "You can not mean to go running after madame in this fashion. You will compromise her. Besides, I have some questions to ask. What about De Brissac's play-woman?" "Died in prison six days ago.
But supposing Mazarin should be seeking her, paper or no paper, to force the truth from her?" "The supposition, does not balance. She knows no more than you or I." "And Monsieur le Comte's play-woman?" "Horns of Panurge!" excitedly. "You have struck a new note, Vicomte. I recollect hearing that she was confined in some one of the city prisons. The sooner the Saint Laurent sails, the better."
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