A drawn look had come over Monsieur’s face.

“Papers which the king gave me, and which I, fool and traitor, have lost.”

I ran back to the spot where we had found Huguet; there was his hat on the ground, but no papers.  I followed up the red trail to its beginning, looking behind every stone, every bunch of grass; but no papers.  In my desperation I even pulled about the dead man, lest the packet had been covered, falling from Huguet in the fray.  The two gentlemen joined me in the search, and we went over every inch of the ground, but to no purpose.

“I thought them safer with Huguet than with me,” Monsieur groaned.  “I knew we ran the risk of ambush.  Myself would be the object of attack; I bade Huguet, were we waylaid, to run with the papers.”

“And of course he would not.”

“He should; it was my command.  He stayed and saved my life perhaps, and lost me what is dearer than life—­my honour.”

“He could not leave you to be killed, Monsieur; that were asking the impossible.”

“Aye, but I am saved at the ruin of a hundred others!” Monsieur cried.  “The papers contained certain lists of names of Mayenne’s officers pledged to support the king if he turn Catholic.  I had them for Lemaitre.  But at this date, in Mayenne’s hands, they spell the men’s destruction.  Huguet should have known that if I told him to desert me, I meant it.”

M. Etienne ventured no word, understanding well enough that in such bitter moments no consolation consoles.  M. le Duc added after a moment: 

“Mordieu!  I am ashamed of myself.  I might be better occupied than in blaming the dead—­the brave and faithful dead.  Belike he could not run, they set on us so suddenly.  When he could, he did go, and he went to his death.  They were my charge, the papers.  I had no right to put the responsibility on any other.  I should have kept them myself.  I should have gone to Tarigny.  I should never have ventured myself through these black lanes.  Fool! traitorous fool!”

“Nay, Monsieur, the mischance might have befallen any one.”

“It would not have befallen Villeroi!  It would not have befallen Rosny!” Monsieur exclaimed bitterly.  “It befalls me because I am a lack-wit who rushes into affairs for which he is not fit.  I can handle a sword, but I have no business to meddle in statecraft.”

“Then have those wiseheads out at St. Denis no business to employ you,” M. Etienne said.  “He is not unknown to fame, this Duke of St. Quentin; everybody knows how he goes about things.  Monsieur, they gave you the papers because no one else would carry them into Paris.  They knew you had no fear in you; and it is because of that that the papers are lacking.  But take heart, Monsieur.  We’ll get them back.”

“When?  How?”

“Soon,” M. Etienne answered, “and easily, if you will tell me what they are like.  Are they open?”

“I fear by now they may be.  There are three sheets of names, and a fourth sheet, a letter—­all in cipher.”