“What have you done?”

“Nothing that I can speak about.  But I am out of Monsieur’s books.”

“What was old Vigo after when he took you in to Monsieur?  I never saw anything so bold.  When Monsieur says he is not to be disturbed he means it.”

I had nothing to tell him, and was silent.

“What is it?  Can’t you tell an old chum?”

“No; it is Monsieur’s private business.”

“Well, you are grumpy!” he cried out pettishly.  “You must be out of grace.”  He seemed to decide that nothing was to be made out of me just now on this tack, and with unabated persistence tried another.

“Is it true, Felix, what one of the men said just now, that you tried to speak with Monsieur this morning when he drove out?”

“Yes.  But Monsieur did not recognize me.”

“Like enough,” Marcel answered.  “He has a way of late of falling into these absent fits.  Monsieur is not the man he was.”

“He does look older,” I said, “and worn.  I trow the risk he is running—­”

“Pshaw!” cried Marcel, with scorn.  “Is Monsieur a man to mind risks?  No; it is M. le Comte.”

I started like a guilty thing, remembering what Yeux-gris had told me and I, wrapped in my petty troubles, had forgotten.  Monsieur had lost his only son.  And I had chosen this time to defy him!

“How long ago was it?” I asked in a hushed voice.

“Since M. le Comte left us?  It will be three weeks next Friday.”

“How did he die?”

“Die?” echoed Marcel.  “You crazy fellow, he is not dead!”

It was my turn to stare.

“Then where is he?”

“It would be money in my pouch if I knew.  What made you think him dead, Felix?”

“A man told me so.”

“Pardieu!” he cried in some excitement.  “When?  Who was it?”

“To-day.  I do not know the man’s name.”

“It seems you know very little.  Pardieu!  I do not believe M. le Comte is dead.  What else did your man say?”

“Nothing.  He only said the Comte de Mar was dead.”

“Pshaw!  I don’t believe it.  You believe everything you hear because you are just from the country.  No; if M. le Comte were dead we should hear of it.  Oh, certainly, we should hear.”

“But where is he, then?  You say he is lost.”

“Aye.  He has not been seen or heard of since the day they had the quarrel.”

“Who quarrelled?”

“Why, he and Monsieur,” answered Marcel, in a lower voice, pointing to the door of the inner room.  “M. le Comte has been his own master too long to take kindly to a hand over him; that is the whole of it.  He has a quick temper.  So has Monsieur.”

But I thought of Monsieur’s wonderful patience, and I cried: 

“Shame!”

“What now?”

“To speak like that of Monsieur.”

“Enfin, it is true.  He is none the worse for that.  But I suppose if Monsieur had a cloven hoof one must not mention it.”