“Monsieur, if he comes to the faith—­”

“Mordieu! faith is not all.  Were he a pagan of the wilderness he were better than these Leaguers.  He fights honestly and bravely and generously.  He could have had the city before now, save that he will not starve us.  He looks the other way, and the provision-trains come in.  But the Leaguers, with all their regiments, dare not openly strike down one man,—­one man who has come all alone into their country,—­they put a spy into his house to eat his bread and betray him; they stir up his own kin to slay him, that it may not be called the League’s work.  And they are most Catholic and noble gentlemen!  Nay, I am done with these pious plotters who would redden my hands with my father’s blood and make me outcast and despised of all men.  I have spent my playtime with the League; I will go work with Henry of Navarre!”

I caught his fire.

“By St. Quentin,” I cried, “we will beat these Leaguers yet!”

He laughed, yet his eyes burned with determination.

“By St. Quentin, shall we!  You and I, Felix, you and I alone will overturn the whole League!  We will show them what we are made of.  They think lightly of me.  Why not?  I never took part with my father.  I lazed about in these gay Paris houses, bent on my pleasure, too shallow a fop even to take sides in the fight for a kingdom.  What should they see in me but an empty-headed roisterer, frittering away his life in follies?  But they will find I am something more.  Well, enter there!”

He dropped back among the pillows, striving to look careless, as Maitre Menard, the landlord, opened the door and stood shuffling on the threshold.

“Does M. le Comte sleep?” he asked me deferentially, though I think he could not but have heard M. Etienne’s tirading half-way down the passage.

“Not yet,” I answered.  “What is it?”

“Why, a man came with a billet for M. le Comte and insisted it be sent in.  I told him Monsieur was not to be disturbed; he had been wounded and was sleeping; I said it was not sense to wake him for a letter that would keep till morning.  But he would have it ’twas of instant import, and so—­”

“Oh, he is not asleep,” I declared, eagerly ushering the maitre in, my mind leaping to the conclusion, for no reason save my ardent wish, that Vigo had discovered our whereabouts.

“I dared not deny him further,” added Maitre Menard.  “He wore the liveries of M. de Mayenne.”

“Of Mayenne,” I echoed, thinking of what M. Etienne had said.  “Pardieu, it may be Lucas himself!” And snatching up my master’s sword I dashed out of the door and was in the cabaret in three steps.

The room contained some score of men, but I, peering about by the uncertain candle-light, could find no one who in any wise resembled Lucas.  A young gamester seated near the door, whom my sudden entrance had jostled, rose, demanding in the name of his outraged dignity to cross swords with me.  On any other day I had deemed it impossible to say him nay, but now with a real vengeance, a quarrel a outrance on my hands, he seemed of no consequence at all.  I brushed him aside as I demanded M. de Mayenne’s man.  They said he was gone.  I ran out into the dark court and the darker street.