“Mademoiselle,” the king cried, “rather shall he torture every chevalier in France than I touch a hair of your head!”

“Sire—­” the word died away in a sigh; like a snapt rose she fell at his feet.

The king was quick, but Monsieur quicker.  On his knees beside her, raising her head on his arm, he commanded me: 

“Up-stairs, Felix!  The door at the back—­bid Dame Verney come instantly.”

I flew, and was back to find him risen, holding mademoiselle in his arms.  Her hair lay loose over his shoulder like a rippling flag; her lashes clung to her cheeks as they would never lift more.

“St. Quentin,” his Majesty was saying, “I would have married her to a prince.  But since she wants your son she shall have him, ventre-saint-gris, if I storm Paris to-morrow!” And as Monsieur was carrying her from the room, the king bent over and kissed her.

“Mademoiselle has dropped a packet from her dress,” M. de Rosny said.  “Will you take it, St. Quentin?”

The king, who was nearest, turned to pass it to him; at the sight of it he uttered his dear “ventre-saint-gris!” It was a flat, oblong packet, tied about with common twine, the seal cut out.  The king twitched the string off, and with one rapid glance at the papers put them into Monsieur’s hand.

“Take them, St. Quentin; they are yours.”

XXIX

The two dukes.

Mademoiselle being given into Dame Verney’s motherly hands, Gilles and I were ordered to repose ourselves on the skins in the saddler’s shop.  Lying there in the malodourous gloom, I could see the crack of light under the door at the back and hear, between Gilles’s snores, the murmur of voices.  The king and his gentlemen were planning to save my master; I went to sleep in perfect peace.

At daybreak, even before the saddler opened the shop, Monsieur routed us out.

“I’m off for Paris, lads.  Felix comes with me.  Gilles stays to guard mademoiselle.”

I felt not a little injured, deeming that I, whom mademoiselle knew best, should not be the one chosen to stay by her.  But the sting passed quickly.  After all, Paris was likely to be more exciting than St. Denis.

The day being Friday, we delayed not to eat, but straightway mounted the two nags that a sunburnt Bearn pikeman had brought to the door.  As we walked them gently across the square, which at this rath hour we alone shared with the twittering birds, we saw coming down one of the empty streets the hurrying figure of M. de Rosny.  My lord drew rein at once.

“You are no slugabed, St. Quentin,” the young councillor called.  “I deserved to miss you.  Fear not!  I come not to hinder you, but to wish you God-speed.”

“Now, this is kind, Rosny,” Monsieur answered, grasping his hand.  “The more that you don’t approve me.”

Rosny smiled, like a sudden burst of sunshine in a December day.  Another man’s embrace would have meant less.