Still I stood like a block of wood.

“Tell M. Gervais to remember me,” he said, and opening the door, passed in.  I heard him lock and bolt it after him, and his footsteps hurrying down the passageway.

Then I came to myself and sprang to the door and beat upon it furiously.  But if he heard he was afraid to respond.  After a futile moment that seemed an hour I rushed out of the arch and around to the great gate.

The grilles were closed as before, but the sentry’s face, luckily, was strange to me.

“Open! open!” I shouted, breathless.  “I must see M. le Duc!”

“Who are you?” he demanded, staring.

“My name is Broux.  I have news for M. le Duc.  Let me in.  It is a matter of life and death.”

“Why, I suppose, then, I must let you in,” that good fellow answered, drawing back the bolts.  “But you must wait here till—­”

The gate was open.  I took base advantage of him by sliding under his arm and shooting across the court up the steps to the house.  The door stood open, and a couple of lackeys lounged on a bench in the hall.

“M. le Duc!” I cried.  “I must see him.”

They jumped up, the picture of bewilderment.

“Who are you?  How came you here?” cried the quicker-tongued of the two.

“The sentry opened for me.  Where am I to find M. le Duc?  I must see him!  I have news!”

“M. le Duc sees no one to-day,” the second lackey announced pompously.

“But I must see him, I tell you,” I repeated.  I had completely lost what little head I ever had; it seemed to me that if I could not see M. le Duc on the instant I should find him weltering in his gore.  “I must see him,” I cried, parrot-like.  “It is a matter of life and death.”

“From whom do you come?”

“That’s my affair.  Enough that I come with news of the highest moment.  You will be sorry if I you do not get me quickly to M. le Duc.”

They looked at each other, somewhat impressed.

“I will go for M. Constant,” said the one who had spoken first.

Constant was Master of the Household; M. le Duc had inherited him with the estate and kept him in his place for old time’s sake.  He was old, fussy, and self-important, and withal no friend to me.

“I had rather you fetched Vigo,” I said.

“Oh, Vigo will not come.  He is with Monsieur.  If I bring M. Constant, it is the best I can do for you.”

I had recovered myself sufficiently by this time to remember the nature of lackeys, and gave the messenger the last silver piece I had in the world.  He regarded it contemptuously, but pocketed it and departed in leisurely fashion up the stairs.

The other was not too grand to cross-examine me.

“What sort of news have you?  Do you come from the king?” he asked in a lowered voice.

“No.”

“From M. de Valere?”

“No.”