“M. de La Motte, you should employ your leisure in writing down your reflections, like the Chevalier de Montaigne.  You could give us a trenchant essay on the Ingratitude of Man.  Here are you host of the biggest inn in Paris—­a pile more imposing than the Louvre itself.  Your hospitality is so eager that you insist on entertaining me, so lavish that you lodge me for nothing, would keep me without a murmur till the end of my life.  Yet I, ingrate that I am, depart without a thank you!”

“They don’t leave in such case that they can very well thank me, most of my guests,” La Motte answered, with a dry smile.  “You are a fortunate man, M. de Mar.”

“M. le Comte, will you come quietly with me to the St. Denis gate?” d’Auvray asked him.  “Or must I borrow a guard from M. de La Motte?”

M. Etienne’s whole face was smiling; not his lips alone, but his eyes.  Even his skin and hair seemed to have taken on a brighter look.  He glanced at d’Auvray in surprise at the absurd question.

“I will come like a lamb, M. le Mousquetaire.”

We saluted La Motte and walked merrily out into the Place Bastille.  I think I never felt so grand as when I passed through the noble sally-port, the soldiers making no motion to hinder us, but all saluting as if we owned the place.  It had its advantage, this making friends with Mayenne.

The first thing my lord did, still in the shadow of the prison, was to come to terms with d’Auvray.

“See here, my friend, why must you put yourself to the fatigue of escorting me to the gate?”

“Orders, monsieur.  The general-duke wants to know that you get into no mischief between here and the gate.  You are banished, you understand, from Paris.”

“I pledge you my word I shall make no attempt to elude my fate.  I go straight to the gate.  But, with all politeness to you, Sir Musketeer, I could dispense with your company.”

“I am a soldier, and a soldier’s orders must be obeyed,” d’Auvray quoted the keeper’s words, which seemed to have impressed him.  “However, M. le Comte, if I had something to look at, I could walk ten paces behind you and look at it.”

“Oh, if it is a question of something to play with!” M. Etienne laughed.

D’Auvray was provided with toys, and M. Etienne linked arms with me, the soldier out of ear-shot behind us.  He followed till we were in the Rue St. Denis, when, waving his hand in farewell, he turned his steps with the pious consciousness of duty done.  Only I looked back to see it; monsieur had forgotten his existence.

“I am not proud; I don’t mind being marched through the streets by a musketeer,” M. Etienne explained as we started; “but I can’t talk before him.  Tell me, Felix, the story, if you would have me live.”

And I told him, till we almost ran blindly into the tower of the St. Denis gate.

We learned of the warder that M. de St. Quentin had recently passed out, but that nothing had been seen of his equery.  No steeds were here for us.