“Mademoiselle,” I cried, “when the billet was brought him M. Etienne rose from his bed at once to come.  But he was faint from fatigue and loss of blood; he could not walk across the room.  But he bade me try to make mademoiselle believe his absence was no fault of his.  He wrote her a month ago; he found to-day the letter was never delivered.”

“Is he hurt dangerously?”

“No,” I admitted reluctantly; “no, I think not.  He was wounded in the right forearm, and again pinked in the shoulder; but he will recover.”

“You said,” she went on, the tears standing in her eyes, “that he was penniless.  I have not much, but what I have is freely his.”

She advanced upon me holding out her silken purse which she had taken from her bosom; but I retreated.

“No, no, mademoiselle,” I cried, ashamed of my hot words; “we are not penniless—­or if we are, we get on very well sans le sou.  They do everything for monsieur at the Trois Lanternes, and he has only to return to the Hotel St. Quentin to get all the gold pieces he can spend.  Oh, no; we are in no want, mademoiselle.  I was angry when I said it; I did not mean it.  I cry mademoiselle’s pardon.”

She looked at me a little hesitatingly.

“You are telling me true?”

“Why, yes, mademoiselle; if my monsieur needed money, indeed, indeed, I would not refuse it.”

“Then if you cannot take it for him, you can take it for yourself.  It will be strange if in all Paris you cannot find something you like as a token from me.”  With her own white fingers she slipped some tinkling coins into my pouch, and cut short my thanks with the little wailing cry: 

“Oh, your poor, bound hands!  I have my poniard in my dress.  I could free them in a second.  But if they knew I had been here with you they never will let you go.”

“If mademoiselle is running into danger staying here, I pray her to go back to bed.  M. Etienne did not send me hither to bring her grief and trouble.”

“Who are you?” she asked me abruptly.  “You have never been here before on monsieur’s errands?”

“No, mademoiselle; I came up only yesterday from Picardie.  I belong on the St. Quentin estate.  My name is Felix Broux.”

“Alack, you have chosen a bad time to visit Paris!”

“I came up to see life,” I said, “and mordieu!  I am seeing it.”

“I pray God you may not see death, too,” she answered soberly.

She stood looking at me helplessly.

“I am in my lord’s black books,” she said slowly, as if to herself; “but I might weep Francois de Brie’s rough heart to softness.  Then it is a question whether he could turn Mayenne.  I wish I knew whether the duke himself or only Paul de Lorraine has planned this move to-night.  That is,” she added, blushing, but speaking out candidly, “whether they attack M. de Mar as the League’s enemy or as my lover.”

“This M. Paul de Lorraine,” said I, speaking as respectfully as I knew how, but eager to find out all I could for M. Etienne—­“this M. de Lorraine is mademoiselle’s lover, too?”