“Then who the devil are you?”

“Felix Broux of St. Quentin.”

“Ah, St. Quentin,” he said, as if he found that rather tame.  “You bring news from there?”

“No, I do not.  Think you I shall tell you?  This news is for Monsieur.”

“It won’t reach Monsieur unless you learn politeness toward the gentlemen of his household,” he retorted.

We were getting into a lively quarrel when Constant appeared on the stairway—­Constant and the lackey who had fetched him, and two more lackeys, and a page, all of whom had somehow scented that something was in the wind.  They came flocking about us as I said: 

“Ah, M. Constant!  You know me, Felix Broux of St. Quentin.  I must see M. le Duc.”

Constant’s face of surprise at me changed to one of malice.  Down at St. Quentin he had suffered much from us pages, as a slow, peevish old dotard must.  I had played many a prank on him, but I had not thought he would revenge himself at such time as this.  He looked at me with a spiteful grin, and said to the men: 

“He lies.  I do not know him.  I never saw him.”

“Never saw me, Felix Broux!” I cried, completely taken aback.

“No,” maintained Constant.  “You are an impostor.”

“Impostor!  Nonsense!” I cried out.  “Constant, you know me as well as you know yourself.  I say I must see the duke; his life is in danger!”

Constant was paying off old scores with interest.

“An impostor,” he yelled shrilly, “or else a madman—­or an assassin.”

“That is the truth,” said some one, laying a heavy hand on my shoulder.

I turned; two men of the guard had come up, my friend of just now and my foe of the morning.  It was the latter who held me and said: 

“This is the very rascal who sprang on Monsieur’s coach-step in the morning.  M. Lucas threw him off, else he might have stabbed Monsieur.  We were fools enough to let him go free.  But this time he shall not get off so easy.”

“I am innocent of all thought of harm,” I cried.  “I am M. le Duc’s loyal servant.  I meant no harm this morning, and I mean none now.  I am here to save Monsieur’s life.”

“He is here to kill Monsieur; he is an assassin!” screamed Constant.  “Flog him, men; he will own the truth then!”

“I am no assassin!” I shouted, struggling in their grasp.  “Let me go, villains, let me go!  I tell you, Monsieur’s life is at stake—­Monsieur’s very life, I tell you!”

They paid me no heed.  Not one of them—­save hat lying knave Constant—­knew me as other than the shabby fellow who had acted suspiciously in the morning.  They were dragging me to the door in spite of my shouts and struggles, when suddenly a ringing voice spoke from above: 

“What is this rumpus?  Who talks of Monsieur’s life?”

The guards halted dead, and I cried out joyfully: 

“Vigo!”

“Yes, I am Vigo,” the big man answered, striding down the stairs.  “Who are you?”