“I blame you, mademoiselle,” Mme. de Mayenne answered her, tartly.  “I consider my salon no place for intrigues with horse-boys.  If you must hold colloquy with this fellow, take him whither he belongs—­to the stables.”

A laugh went up among those who laugh at whatever a duchess says.

“Come, mesdames, we will resume our play,” she added to the ladies who had followed her on the scene, and turned her back in lofty disdain on Mlle. de Montluc and her concerns.  But though some of the company obeyed her, a curious circle still surrounded us.

“Dame! if you must be banished to the stables, we all will go, mademoiselle,” declared the pink gallant.  “We all want news of the vanished Mar.”

“Indeed we do.  We have missed him sorely.  And I dare swear this messenger’s account will prove diverting,” lisped the sky-coloured demoiselle.

I was not enjoying myself.  I had given all my hopes of glory to be out in the street again.  I wished Mlle. de Montluc would take me to the stables—­anywhere out of this laughing company.  But she had no such intent.

“I think madame does not mean her sentence,” she rejoined.  “I would not for the world frustrate your curiosity, Blanche; nor yours, M. de Champfleury.  Tell us what has befallen your master, Sir Courier.”

“He has been in a duel, mademoiselle.”

“Whom was he fighting?”

“And for what lady’s favour?”

“Is it a pretty Huguenot this time?”

“Does she make him read his Bible?”

“Or did her big brother set on him for a wicked papist?”

The questions chorussed upon me; I saw they were framed to tease mademoiselle.  I answered as best I might: 

“He thinks of no lady but Mlle. de Montluc.  The fight was over other matters.  I am only told to say M. le Comte regrets most heartily that his wound prevents his coming, and to assure mademoiselle that he is too weak and faint to walk across the floor.”

“Then exceed your instructions a little.  Tell us what monsieur has been about these four weeks that he could not take time to visit us.”

I was in a dilemma.  I knew she was M. Etienne’s chosen lady and therefore deserving of all fealty from me; yet at the same time I could not answer her question.  It was sheer embarrassment and no intent of rudeness that caused my short answer: 

“About his own concerns, mademoiselle.”

“The young puppy begins to growl!” exclaimed the thick-set soldierly fellow who had bespoken me before, whose hostile gaze had never left my face.  “I’ll have him flogged, mademoiselle, for this insolence.”

“M. de Brie—­” she began at the same moment that I cried out to her: 

“I meant no insolence; I crave mademoiselle’s pardon.”  I added, in my haste floundering deeper into the mire:  “Mademoiselle sees for herself that I cannot tell about M. le Comte’s affairs in this house.”