How simple to have told Mazarin that he had loaned the cloak to Victor de Saumaise.

A dozen words.

His head was throbbing violently and his throat was hot.

He took off his hat and the keen air of morning cooled his damp forehead.
Five years.

He could see this year drag itself to its dismal end, and another, and another, till five had come and gone, each growing infinitely longer and duller and more hopeless.