“And meantime is he to rot behind bars?”

“Unless Monsieur can get him out.  But then,” Vigo went on, “a month or two in a cell won’t be a bad thing for him, neither.  His head will have a chance to cool.  After a dose of Mayenne’s purge he may recover of his fever for Mayenne’s ward.”

“Monsieur!  You will send to Monsieur?”

“Of course.  You will go.  And Gilles with you to keep you out of mischief.”

“When?  Now?”

“No,” said Vigo.  “You will go clothe yourself in breeches first, else are you not likely to arrive anywhere but at the mad-house.  And then eat your supper.  It’s a long road to St. Denis.”

I ran at once, through a fusillade of jeers from soldiers, grooms, and house-men, across the court, through the hall, and up the stairs to Marcel’s chamber.  Never was I gladder of anything in my life than to doff those swaddling petticoats.  Two minutes, and I was a man again.  I found it in my heart to pity the poor things who must wear the trappings their lives long.

But for all my joy in my freedom, I choked over my supper and pushed it away half tasted, in misery over M. Etienne.  Vigo might say comfortably that Mayenne dared not kill him, but I thought there were few things that gentleman dared not do.  Then there was Lucas to be reckoned with.  He had caught his fly in the web; he was not likely to let him go long undevoured.  At best, if M. Etienne’s life were safe, yet was he helpless, while to-morrow our mademoiselle was to marry.  Vigo seemed to think that a blessing, but I was nigh to weeping into my soup.  The one ray of light was that she was not to marry Lucas.  That was something.  Still, when M. Etienne came out of prison, if ever he did,—­I could scarce bring myself to believe it,—­he would find his dear vanished over the rocky Pyrenees.

Vigo would not even let me start when I was ready.  Since we were too late to find the gates open, we must wait till ten of the clock, at which hour the St. Denis gate would be in the hands of a certain Brissac, who would pass us with a wink at the word St. Quentin.

I was so wroth with Vigo that I would not stay with him, but went up-stairs into M. Etienne’s silent chamber, and flung myself down on the window-bench his head might never touch again, and wondered how he was faring in prison.  I wished I were there with him.  I cared not much what the place was, so long as we were together.  I had gone down the mouth of hell smiling, so be it I went at his heels.  Mayhap if I had struggled harder with my captors, shown my sex earlier, they had taken me too.  Heartily I wished they had; I trow I am the only wight ever did wish himself behind bars.  And promptly I repented me, for if Vigo had proved but a broken reed, there was Monsieur.  Monsieur was not likely to sit smug and declare prison the best place for his son.