The King's Passport

Starlight and evening cold, thin snow crisp on the street-
stones; Paris in 1640.

Houses etched with snow-white roofs and gables, November
wind sharp, howling up the Seine valley; the dark streets
empty, desolate, unkindly. Destiny, leading three men to
her crossroads -- three men, noble, prince, commoner.

To the bridge of Notre Dame came the first man. He paused
in shelter of the parapet and gazed across at St. Germain
in shivering indecision, He failed to see another figure
come hurrying toward the bridge; the other failed to see
him there in shadow. The two men collided sharply.

The man in haste snarled an oath of surprise, of fright,
of anger. He whipped out a dagger and lunged furiously at
the first man. The two grappled, reeled, slipped in the
snow and came down together. Pierced through the heart by
his own weapon, the assailant lay outsprawled and dead.
Beside him two objects were fallen in the snow -- a heavy
purse, and a rolled document on thick vellum.

The first man knelt, found his assailant dead, picked up
the two objects, and rose. Abruptly, the desolation gave
tongue. The bridge held voices, bobbing yellow lanterns,
archers of the "guet," the night-watch. No passing toward
St. Germain now! Turn back to the Cite -- turn, turn
swiftly!

Hat pulled low, face muffled, the first man strode away
rapidly and yet aimlessly, as one not knowing whither he
went. Presently he came into a narrow and tortuous street,
the Rue de Ia Juiverie. Light glimmered ahead, from the
thick-glassed windows of a tavern, whose sign of a pinecone
overhung the street.

Trampled snow here, heavily marked from the tavern doorway,
sign of company lately departed. Peering in at the window,
the first man saw the place all empty, still faintly blue
with tobacco smoke. The door swung to his hand. He crossed
to the darkest corner, flung the purse upon the table, and
upon the host's appearance ordered supper at once, a
sumptuous supper. Then he unrolled the vellum document and
perused it.

Destiny had accomplished its task, had brought the first
man to the place appointed.

The second man appeared, meantime, in shadow of the nearby
church of Ste. Magdaleine. A tall figure, Gascon oaths upon
his lips, guardman's sash beneath his cloak. A companion
was with him. Two figures in the dim snowy street by the
church enclosure, pausing, conferring together.

"Mordious!" said the second man. "Then the spot suits
you?"

"Agreed," said the other. "Luckily, M. de Cyrano, it is
your sword I must face and not your nose -- "

"En garde!" exclaimed the second man brusquely. "Brr! Too
cold for long work -- at the third riposte, I warn you. The
third riposte; remember -- "

The rasp of rapiers drawn from scabbard, the salute, the
sharp click of crossed blades meeting, the sharper ring of
steel against hilt. "One!" said the second man. His
companion cursed him. "Two!" he said, and then laughed and
bore back under a furious attack.

"Three!" His companion coughed and fell, pierced through
the throat.