I wanted to shout, “Felix Broux, Monsieur’s page,” but a sort of nightmare dread came over me lest Vigo, too, should disclaim me, and my voice stuck in my throat.

“Whoever you are, you will be taught not to make a racket in M. le Duc’s hall.  By the saints! it’s the boy Felix.”

At the friendliness in his voice the guards dropped their hands from me.

“M.  Vigo,” I said, “I have news for Monsieur of the gravest moment.  I am come on a matter of life and death.  And I am stopped in the hall by lackeys.”

He looked at me sternly.

“This is not one of your fooleries, Felix?”

“No, M. Vigo.”

“Come with me.”

VII

A divided duty.

That was Vigo’s way.  The toughest snarl untangled at his touch.  He had more sense and fewer airs than any other, he saw at once that I was in earnest; and Constant’s voluble protests were as so much wind.  The title does not make the man.  Though Constant was Master of the Household and Vigo only Equery, yet Vigo ruled every corner of the establishment and every man in it, save only Monsieur, who ruled him.

He said no word to me as we climbed the broad stair; neither reproved me for the fracas nor questioned me about my coming.  He would not pry into Monsieur’s business; and, save as I concerned Monsieur, he had no interest in me whatsoever.  He led the way straight into an antechamber, where a page sprang up to bar our passage.

“No one may enter, M. Vigo, not even you.  M. le Duc has ordered it.  Why, Felix!  You in Paris!”

“I enter,” said Vigo; and, sweeping Marcel aside, he knocked loudly.

“I came last night,” I found time to say under my breath to my old comrade before the door was opened.

The handsome secretary whom I had taken for the count stood in the doorway looking askance at us.  He knew me at once and wondered.

“You cannot enter, Vigo.  M. le Duc is occupied.”

He made to shut the door, but Vigo’s foot was over the sill.

“Natheless, I must enter,” he answered unabashed and pushed his way into the room.

“Then you must answer for it,” returned the secretary, with a scowl that sat ill on his delicate face.

“You shall answer for it if it turns out a mare’s nest,” said Vigo, in a low, meaning voice to me.  But I hardly heard him.  I passed him and Lucas, and flew down the long room to Monsieur.

M. le Duc was seated before a table heaped with papers.  He had been watching the scene at the door in surprise and anger.  He looked at me with a sharp frown, while the deer-hound at his feet rose on its haunches growling.

“Roland!” I said.  The dog sprang up and came to me.

“Felix Broux!” Monsieur exclaimed, with his quick, warm smile—­a smile no man in France could match for radiance.

I had no thought of kneeling, of making obeisance, of waiting permission to speak.