“Nay; he believed me guilty.”

“But, monsieur—­”

“You may not say ‘but’ to me.”

“Pardon, monsieur.  Am I to tell Vigo monsieur is gone?”

“Yes, tell him.”  His lip quivered; he struggled hard for steadiness.  “You will go to M. le Duc, Felix, and rise in his favour, for it was you saved his life.  Then tell him this from me—­that some day, when I have made me worthy to enter his presence, then will I go to him and beg his forgiveness on my knees.  And now farewell.”

He slipped away into the darkness.

I stood hesitating for a moment.  Then I followed my lord.

He slackened his pace as he heard footsteps overtake him, and where a beam of light shone out from an open door he wheeled about, thinking me a footpad.

“You, Felix?”

“Yes, monsieur; I go with M. le Comte.”

“I have not permitted you.”

“Then must I go in despite.  Monsieur is wounded; I cannot leave him to go unsquired.”

“There are lackeys to hire.  I bade you seek M. le Duc.”

“Is not monsieur a thought unreasonable?  I cannot be in two places at once.  Monsieur can send a letter.  The duke has Vigo and a household.  I go with M. le Comte.”

“Oh,” he cried, “you are a faithful servant!  We are ridden to death by our faithful servants, we St. Quentins.  Myself, I prefer fleas!” He added, growing angrier, “Will you leave me?”

“No, monsieur,” said I.

He glowered at me and I think he had some notion of chasing me away with his sword.  But since his dignity could not so stoop, he growled: 

“Come, then, if you choose to come unasked and most unwelcome!”

With this he walked on a yard ahead of me, never turning his head nor saying a word, I following meekly, wondering whither, and devoutly hoping it might be to supper.  Presently I observed that we were in a better quarter of the town, and before long we came to a broad, well-lighted inn, whence proceeded a merry chatter and rattle of dice.  M. Etienne with accustomed feet turned into the court at the side, and seizing upon a drawer who was crossing from door to door despatched him for the landlord.  Mine host came, fat and smiling, unworried by the hard times, greeted Yeux-gris with acclaim as “this dear M. le Comte,” wondered at his long absence and bloody shirt, and granted with all alacrity his three demands of a supper, a surgeon, and a bed.  I stood back, ill at ease, aching at the mention of supper, and wondering whether I were to be driven off like an obtrusive puppy.  But when M. le Comte, without glancing at me, said to the drawer, “Take care of my serving-man,” I knew my stomach was safe.

That was the most I thought of then, I do confess, for, except for my sausage, I had not tasted food since morning.  The barber came and bandaged M. le Comte and put him straight to bed, and I was left free to fall on the ample victuals set before me, and was so comfortable and happy that the Rue Coupejarrets seemed like an evil dream.  Since that day I have been an easy mark for beggars if they could but manage to look starved.