“Yes, I,” I answered in some resentment.  “I am one of his men.”

He looked me up and down with a grin.

“Oh, one of his men!  Well, my man, you must know M. le Duc is not receiving to-day.”

“I am Felix Broux,” I told him.

“You may be Felix anybody for all it avails; you cannot see Monsieur.”

“Then I will see Vigo.”  Vigo was Monsieur’s Master of Horse, the staunchest man in France.  This sentry was nobody, just a common fellow picked up since Monsieur left St. Quentin, but Vigo had been at his side these twenty years.

“Vigo, say you!  Vigo does not see street boys.”

“I am no street boy,” I cried angrily.  “I know Vigo well.  You shall smart for flouting me, when I have Monsieur’s ear.”

“Aye, when you have!  Be off with you, rascal.  I have no time to bother with you.”

“Imbecile!” I sputtered.  But he had turned his back on me and resumed his pacing up and down the court.

“Oh, very well for you, monsieur,” I cried out loudly, hoping he could hear me.  “But you will laugh t’other side of your mouth by and by.  I’ll pay you off.”

It was maddening to be halted like this at the door of my goal; it made a fool of me.  But while I debated whether to set up an outcry that would bring forward some officer with more sense than the surly sentry, or whether to seek some other entrance, I became aware of a sudden bustle in the courtyard, a narrow slice of which I could see through the gateway.  A page dashed across; then a pair of flunkeys passed.  There was some noise of voices and, finally, of hoofs and wheels.  Half a dozen men-at-arms ran to the gates and swung them open, taking their stand on each side.  Clearly, M. le Duc was about to drive out.

A little knot of people had quickly collected—­sprung from between the stones of the pavement, it would seem—­to see Monsieur emerge.

“He is a bold man,” I heard one say, and a woman answer, “Aye, and a handsome,” ere the heavy coach rolled out of the arch.

I pushed myself in close to the guardsmen, my heart thumping in my throat now that the moment had come when I should see my Monsieur.  At the sight of his face I sprang bodily up on the coach-step, crying, all my soul in my voice, “Oh, Monsieur!  M. le Duc!”

Monsieur looked at me coldly, blankly, without a hint of recognition.  The next instant the young gentleman beside him sprang up-and struck me a blow that hurled me off the step.  I fell where the ponderous wheels would have ended me had not a guardsman, quick and kind, pulled me out of the way.  Some one shouted, “Assassin!”

“I am no assassin,” I cried; “I only sought to speak with Monsieur.”

“He deserves a hiding, the young cur,” growled my foe, the sentry.  “He’s been pestering me this half-hour to let him in.  He was one of Monsieur’s men, he said.  Monsieur would see him.  Well, we have seen how Monsieur treats him!”