“No, pardieu!  Vigo went straight on horseback to the Bonne Femme, but Peyrot had vanished.  So he galloped round to the Rue Tournelles, whither he had sent two of our men before him, but the bird was flown.  He had been home half an hour before,—­he left the inn just after us,—­had paid his arrears of rent, surrendered his key, and taken away his chest, with all his worldly goods in it, on the shoulders of two porters, bound for parts unknown.  Gilles is scouring Paris for him.  Mordieu, I wish him luck!”

His face betokened little hope of Gilles.  We both kept chagrined silence.

“And we thought him sleeping!” presently cried he.

“Well,” he added, rising, “that milk’s spilt; no use crying over it.  Plan a better venture; that’s the only course.  Monsieur is gone back to St. Denis to report to the king.  Marry, he makes as little of these gates as if he were a tennis-ball and they the net.  Time was when he thought he must plan and prepare, and know the captain of the watch, and go masked at midnight.  He has got bravely over that now; he bounces in and out as easily as kiss my hand.  I pray he may not try it once too often.”

“Mayenne dare not touch him.”

“What Mayenne may dare is not good betting.  Monsieur thinks he dares not.  Monsieur has come through so many perils of late, he is happily convinced he bears a charmed life.  Felix, do you come with me to the Hotel de Lorraine?”

“Ah, monsieur!” I cried, bethinking myself that I had forgotten to dress.

“Nay, you need not don these clothes,” he interposed, with a look of wickedness which I could not interpret.  “Wait; I’m back anon.”

He darted out of the room, to return speedily with an armful of apparel, which he threw on the bed.

“Monsieur,” I gasped in horror, “it’s woman’s gear!”

“Verily.”

“Monsieur! you cannot mean me to wear this!”

“I mean it precisely.”

“Monsieur!”

“Why, look you, Felix,” he laughed, “how else am I to take you?  You were at pains to make yourself conspicuous in M. de Mayenne’s salon; they will recognize you as quickly as me.”

“Oh, monsieur, put me in a wig, in cap and bells, an you like!  I will be monsieur’s clown, anything, only not this!”

“I never heard of a jeweller accompanied by his clown.  Nor have I any party-colour in my armoires.  But since I have exerted myself to borrow this toggery,—­and a fine, big lass is the owner, so I think it will fit,—­you must wear it.”

I was like to burst with mortification; I stood there in dumb, agonized appeal.

“Oh, well, then you need not go at all.  If you go, you go as Felicie.  But you may stay at home, if it likes you better.”

That settled me.  I would have gone in my grave-clothes sooner than not go at all, and belike he knew it.  I began arraying myself sullenly and clumsily in the murrain petticoats.