“I am the child of bewilderment, captain.”

“And you’ve not too much time to recover from it, M. le Comte.  You are to go straight to the king.”

“I may go to M. de St. Quentin’s lodgings first?”

“No, monsieur; straight to the king.”

“What! in my shirt?”

“I can’t help it, monsieur,” the captain laughed.  “I suppose the king did not guess you were coming in your shirt.  Anyway, his order was to fetch you direct.  And direct you go.  But never care.  Our king’s no stickler for toggery.  He’s known what it is himself to lack for a coat.”

“I might wash my face, then.”

“Certainly.  No harm in that.”

So M. Etienne went into the tournebride and washed his face.  And that was all the toilet he made for audience with the greatest king in the world.

“You’ll ride to Monsieur’s,” he commanded me, when the captain answered: 

“No; he goes with you, monsieur, if he’s the boy Choux, Troux, whatever it is.”

“Broux—­Felix Broux!” I cried, a-quiver.

“That’s it.  You go to the king, too.  Another luck-child.”

I thought so indeed.  We followed the sentry through the town in a waking dream, content to let him do with us as he would.  He did the talking, explained to the grandees in the king’s hall our names and errand.  One of them led us up the stairs and knocked at a closed door.

“Enter!”

It was Henry’s own voice.  I pinched monsieur’s hand to tell him.  Our guide opened the door a crack.

“M. de Mar, Sire, and his servant.”

“Good, La Force.  Let them enter.”

M. La Force fairly pushed us over the sill, so abashed were we, and shut the door upon us.

The king was alone.  But before this simple gentleman in the rusty black, M. Etienne caught his breath as he had not done before a court in full pomp.  He had seen courts, but he had never seen the first soldier of Europe.  He advanced three steps into the room, and forgot to kneel, forgot to lower his gaze in the presence, but merely stared wide-eyed at majesty, as majesty stared at him.  Thus they stood surveying each other from top to toe in the frankest curiosity, till at length the king spoke: 

“M. de Mar, you look less like a carpet-knight than I expected.”

M. Etienne came to himself, to kneel at once.

“Sire, I blush for my looks.  But your zealous soldiers would not let me from their clutches.  I am just come from killing Paul de Lorraine.”

“What! the spy Lucas?”

“Himself.  And when I left the spot by way of the window in some haste, I was not expecting this honour, Sire.”

“Nor do I think you deserve it, ventre-saint-gris!” the king cried.  “Though you come hatless and coat-less to-day, you have been a long time on the road, M. de Mar.”

“Aye, Sire.”

“You might as well have stayed away as come at this hour.  Marry, all’s over!  Go hang yourself, my breathless follower!  We have fought all our great battles, and you were not there!”