“Monsieur, if you repent your hot words, so does he.”

“I must e’en give him the chance.  If he do repent them, it were churlish to deny him the opportunity to tell me so.  If he still maintain them, it were cowardly to shrink from hearing it.  No, whatever Monsieur replies, I must go tell him I repent.”

I came forward to kiss his hand, I was so pleased.

“Oh, you look very smiling over it,” he cried.  “Think you I like sneaking back home again like a whipped hound to his kennel?”

“But,” I protested, indignant, “monsieur is not a whipped hound.”

“Well, a prodigal son, as Lucas named me yesterday.  It is the same thing.”

“I have heard M. l’Abbe read the story of the prodigal son,” I said.  “And he was a vaurien, if you like—­no more monsieur’s sort than Lucas himself.  But it says that when his father saw him coming a long way off, he ran out to meet him and fell on his neck.”

M. Etienne looked not altogether convinced.

“Well, however it turns out, it must be gone through with.  It is only decent to go to Monsieur.  But even at that, I think I should not go if it were not for mademoiselle.”

“You will beg his aid, monsieur?”

“I will beg his advice at least.  For how you and I are to carry off mademoiselle under Mayenne’s hand—­well, I confess for the nonce that beats me.”

“We must do it, monsieur,” I cried.

“Aye, and we will!  Come, Felix, you may put your knife in my dish.  We must eat and be off.  The meats have got cold and the wine warm, but never mind.”

I did not mind, but was indeed thankful to get any dinner at all.  Once resolved on the move, he was in a fever to be off; it was not long before we were in the streets, bound for the Hotel St. Quentin.  He said no more of Monsieur as we walked, but plied me with questions about Mlle. de Montluc—­not only as to every word she said, but as to every turn of her head and flicker of her eyelids; and he called me a dull oaf when I could not answer.  But as we entered the Quartier Marais he fell silent, more Friday-faced than ever his lady looked.  He had his fair allowance of pride, this M. Etienne; he found his own words no palatable meal.

However, when we came within a dozen paces of the gate he dropped, as one drops a cloak, all signs of gloom or discomposure, and approached the entrance with the easy swagger of the gay young gallant who had lived there.  As if returning from a morning stroll he called to the sentry: 

“Hola, squinting Charlot!  Open now!”

“Morbleu, M. le Comte!” the fellow exclaimed, running to draw the bolts.  “Well, this is a sight for sore eyes, anyway.”

M. Etienne laughed out in pleasure.  It put heart into him, I could see, that his first greeting should be thus friendly.

“Vigo didn’t know what had become of you, monsieur,” Chariot volunteered.  “The old man wasn’t in the best of tempers last night, after Lucas got away and you gave us the slip, too.  He called us all blockheads and cursed idiots.  Things were lively for a time, nom d’un chien!”