“Ah, Monsieur, you are noble, and I love you!” I cried from the depths of my heart, and knelt to kiss his hand.

Monsieur laid that kind hand on my shoulder.

“You shall serve me.  Go now and send Vigo here.  I must be looking to the country’s business.”

X

Lucas and “Le Gaucher."

I cursed myself for a fool that I had carried the tale to Monsieur.  It should have been my business to keep a still tongue and go kill Yeux-gris myself.  For this last it was not yet too late.

Marcel was hanging about in the corridor, and to him I gave the word for Vigo.  I tore away from his eager questionings and hurried to the gate.

In the morning I had not been able to get in, and now I could no more get out.  By Vigo’s orders, no man might leave the house.

Vigo was after the spy, of course.  Monsieur knew the traitor now; he would inform Vigo, and the gates would be open for honest men.  But that might take time and I could not wait five minutes.  I had the audacity to cry to the guards: 

“M. le Duc will let me pass out.  I refer you to M. le Duc.”

The men were impressed.  They had a respect for me, since I had been closeted with Monsieur.  Yet they dared not disobey Vigo for their lives.  In this dilemma the poor sentry, fearful of getting into trouble whatever he did, sent up an envoy to ask Monsieur.  I was frightened then.  I had uttered my speech in sheer bravado, and was very doubtful as to how he would answer my impudence.  But he was utterly careless, I trow, what I did, for presently the word came down that I might pass out.

The sun was setting as I hastened along the streets.  I must reach the Rue Coupejarrets before dark, else there was no hope for me.  A man in his senses would have known there was no hope anyway.  Who but a madman would think of venturing back, forsworn, to those three villains, for the killing of one?  It would be a miracle if aught resulted but failure and death.  Yet I felt no jot of fear as I plunged into the mesh of crooked streets in the Coupejarrets quarter—­only ardour to reach my goal.  When, on turning a corner, I came upon a group of idlers choking the narrow ruelle, I said to myself that a dozen Parisians in the way could no more stop me than they could stop a charge of horse.  All heels and elbows, I pushed into them.  But, to my abasement, promptly was I seized upon by a burly porter and bidden, with a cuff, to mind my manners.  Then I discovered the occasion of the crowd to be a little procession of choristers out of a neighbouring church—­St. Jean of the Spire it was, though I knew then no name for it.  The boys were singing, the watchers quiet, bareheaded.  They sang as if there were nothing in the world but piety and love.  The last level rays of the sun crowned them with radiant aureoles, painted their white robes with glory.  I shut