“Must we wait?” mademoiselle urged me, quivering like the arrow on the bow-string.  “They may discover I am gone.  Need we wait?”

“Aye,” I answered; “if Vigo bids us.  He knows.”

We waited then.  Vigo disappeared presently.  Mademoiselle and I stood patient, with, oh! what impatience in our hearts, wondering how he could so hinder us.  Not till he came back did it dawn on me for what we had stayed.  He was dressed as an under-groom, not a tag of St. Quentin colours on him.

“I beg a thousand pardons, mademoiselle.  I had to give my lieutenant his orders.  Now, if you will give the word, we go.”

“Do you go, M. Vigo?” She breathed deep.  It was easy to see she looked upon him as a regiment.

“Of course,” Vigo answered, as if there could be no other way.

I said in pure devilry, to try to ruffle him: 

“Vigo, you said you were here to guard Monsieur’s interests-his house, his goods, his moneys.  Do you desert your trust?”

Mademoiselle turned quickly to him: 

“Vigo, you must not let me take you from your rightful post.  Felix and your man here will care for me—­”

“The boy talks silliness, mademoiselle,” Vigo returned tranquilly.  “Mademoiselle is worth a dozen hotels.  I go with her.”

He walked beside her across the court, I following with Gilles, laughing to myself.  Only yesterday had Vigo declared that never would he give aid and comfort to Mlle. de Montluc.  It was no marvel she had conquered M. Etienne, for he must needs have been in love with some one, but in bringing Vigo to her feet she had won a triumph indeed.

We had to go out by the great gate, because the key of the postern was in the Bastille.  But as if by magic every guardsman and hanger-about had disappeared—­there was not one to stare at the lady; though when we had passed some one locked the gates behind us.  Vigo called me up to mademoiselle’s left.  Gilles was to loiter behind, far enough to seem not to belong to us, near enough to come up at need.  Thus, at a good pace, mademoiselle stepping out as brave as any of us, we set out across the city for the Porte St. Denis.

Our quarter was very quiet; we scarce met a soul.  But afterward, as we reached the neighbourhood of the markets, the streets grew livelier.  Now were we gladder than ever of Vigo’s escort; for whenever we approached a band of roisterers or of gentlemen with lights, mademoiselle sheltered herself behind the equery’s broad back, hidden as behind a tower.  Once the gallant M. de Champfleury, he who in pink silk had adorned Mme. de Mayenne’s salon, passed close enough to touch her.  She heaved a sigh of relief when he was by.  For her own sake she had no fear; the midnight streets, the open road to St. Denis, had no power to daunt her:  but the dread of being recognized and turned back rode her like a nightmare.

Close by the gate, Vigo bade us pause in the door of a shop while he went forward to reconnoiter.  Before long he returned.