“Bad luck, mademoiselle.  Brissac’s not on.  I don’t know the officer, but he knows me, that’s the worst of it.  He told me this was not St. Quentin night.  Well, we must try the Porte Neuve.”

But mademoiselle demurred: 

“That will be out of our way, will it not, Vigo?  It is a longer road from the Porte Neuve to St. Denis?”

“Yes; but what to do?  We must get through the walls.”

“Suppose we fare no better at the Porte Neuve?  If your Brissac is suspected, he’ll not be on at night.  Vigo, I propose that we part company here.  They will not know Gilles and Felix at the gate, will they?”

“No,” Vigo said doubtfully; “but—­”

“Then can we get through!” she cried.  “They will not stop us, such humble folk!  We are going to the bedside of our dying mother at St. Denis.  Your name, Gilles?”

“Forestier, mademoiselle,” he stammered, startled.

“Then are we all Forestiers—­Gilles, Felix, and Jeanne.  We can pass out, Vigo; I am sure we can pass out.  I am loath to part with you, but I fear to go through the city to the Porte Neuve.  My absence may be discovered—­I must place myself without the walls speedily.

“Well, mademoiselle may try it,” Vigo gave reluctant consent.  “If you are refused, we can fall back on the Porte Neuve.  If you succeed—­Listen to me, you fellows.  You will deliver mademoiselle into Monsieur’s hands, or answer to me for it.  If any one touches her little finger—­well, trust me!”

“That’s understood,” we answered, saluting together.

“Mademoiselle need have no doubts of them,” Vigo said.  “Felix is M. le Comte’s own henchman.  And Gilles is the best man in the household, next to me.  God speed you, my lady.  I am here, if they turn you back.”

We went boldly round the corner and up the street to the gate.  The sentry walking his beat ordered us away without so much as looking at us.  Then Gilles, appointed our spokesman, demanded to see the captain of the watch.  His errand was urgent.

But the sentry showed no disposition to budge.  Had we a passport?  No, we had no passport.  Then we could go about our business.  There was no leaving Paris to-night for us.  Call the captain?  No; he would do nothing of the kind.  Be off, then!

But at this moment, hearing the altercation, the officer himself came out of the guard-room in the tower, and to him Gilles at once began his story.  Our mother at St. Denis had sent for us to come to her dying bed.  He was a street-porter; the messenger had had trouble to find him.  His young brother and sister were in service, kept to their duties till late.  Our mother might even now be yielding up the ghost!  It was a pitiful case, M. le Capitaine; might we not be permitted to pass?

The young officer appeared less interested in this moving tale than in the face of mademoiselle, lighted up by the flambeau on the tower wall.

“I should be glad to oblige your charming sister,” he returned, smiling, “but none goes out of the city without a passport.  Perhaps you have one, though, from my Lord Mayenne?”