“One would get his head broken.”

“Oh, you Broux!” he cried out.  “I have not seen you for half a year.  I had forgotten that with you the St. Quentins rank with the saints.”

“You—­you are a hired servant.  You come to Monsieur as you might come to anybody.  With the Broux it is different,” I retorted angrily.  Yet I could not but know in my heart that any hired servant might have served Monsieur better than I. My boasted loyalty—­what was it but lip-service?  I said more humbly:  “Pshaw! it is no great matter.  Tell me about the quarrel.”

“And so I will, if you’re civil.  In the first place, there was the question of M. le Comte’s marriage.”

“What! is he married?”

“Oh, by no means.  Monsieur wouldn’t have it.  You see, Felix,” Marcel said in a tone deep with importance, “we’re Navarre’s men now.”

“Of course,” said I.

“I suppose you would say ‘of course’ just like that to Mayenne himself.  You greenhorn!  It is as much as our lives are worth to side openly with Navarre.  The League may attack us any day.”

“I know,” I said uneasily.  Every chance word Marcel spoke seemed to dye my guilt the deeper.  “But what has this to do with M. le Comte’s marriage?” I asked him.

“Why, he was more than half a Leaguer.  Perhaps he is one now.  Some say he and Monsieur were at daggers drawn about politics; but I warrant it was about Mlle. de Montluc.  They call her the Rose of Lorraine.  She’s the Duke of Mayenne’s own cousin and housemate.  And we’re king’s men, so of course it was no match for Monsieur’s son.  They say Mayenne himself favoured the marriage, but our duke wouldn’t hear of it.  However, the backbone of the trouble was M. de Grammont.”

“And who may he be?”

“He’s a cousin of the house.  He and M. le Comte are as thick as thieves.  Before we came to Paris they lodged together.  So when M. le Comte came here he brought M. de Grammont.  Dare I speak ill of Monsieur’s cousin, Felix?  For I would say, at the risk of a broken head, that he is a sour-faced churl.  You cannot deny it.  You never saw him.”

“No, nor M. le Comte, either.”

“Why, you have seen M. le Comte!”

“Never.  The only time he came to St. Quentin I was laid up in bed with a strained leg.  I missed the chase.  Don’t you remember?”

“Why, you are right; that was the time you fell out of the buttery window when you were stealing tarts, and Margot got after you with the broomstick.  I remember very well.”

He was for calling up all our old pranks at the chateau, but it was little joy to me to think on those fortunate days when I was Monsieur’s favourite.  I said: 

“Nay, Marcel, you were telling me of M. le Comte and the quarrel.”

“Oh, as for that, it is easy told.  You see M. le Comte and this Grammont took no interest in Monsieur’s affairs, and they had very little to say to him, and he to them.  They had plenty of friends in Paris, Leaguers or not, and they used to go about amusing themselves.  But at last M. de Grammont had such a run of bad luck at the tables that he not only emptied his own pockets but M. le Comte’s as well.  I will say for M. le Comte that he would share his last sou with any one who asked.”