The custodian in the stone cell by the gate came yawning out to the bars at the sound of Gilles de Sille’s knocking, and after a growl of disfavour admitted the youth and his companion.

“What, gone—­my master gone!” cried Gilles, striking his hand on his thigh with an astounded air, “impossible!”

“It was, indeed, a thing particularly unthoughtful and discourteous of my Lord de Retz, Marshal of France and Chamberlain of the King, to undertake a journey without consulting you,” replied the man, who considered irony his strong point, but feebly concealing his pleasure at the favourite’s discomfiture; “we all know upon what terms your honourable self is with my lord.  But you must not blame him, for he waited whole twenty-four hours for news of you.  It was reported that you were set upon by four giants, and that your bones, crushed like a filbert, had been discovered in the horse pond at the back of the Convent of the Virgins of Complaisance.”

Gilles de Sille looked as if he could very well have murdered the speaker on the spot.  His favour with his lord was evidently not a thing of repute in his master’s household.  So much was clear to Laurence, who, for the first time, began to have fears as to his own reception, having such an unpopular person as voucher and introducer.

“If you do not keep a civil tongue in your head, sirrah Labord,”—­the youth hissed the words through his clenched teeth,—­“I will have your throat cut.”

“Ah, I am too old,” said the man, boldly; “besides, this is Paris, and I have been twenty years concierge to his Grace the Duke of Orleans.  I and my wife have his secrets even as you, most noble Sire de Sille, possess those of my new master.  You, or he either, by God’s grace, will think twice before cutting my throat.  Moreover, you will be good enough at this point to state your business or get to bed.  For I am off to mine.  I serve my master, but I am not compelled to spend the night parleying with his lacqueys.”

Now the concierges of Paris are very free and independent personages, and their tongues are accustomed to wag freely and to some purpose in their heads.

“Whither has my master gone?” asked de Sille, curbing his wrath in order to get an answer.

“He said that he went to Tiffauges.  Whether that be true, you have better means of knowing than I.”

The swarthy youth turned to Laurence.

“How much money have you, Master O’Halloran?  I have spent all of mine, and this city swine will not lend me a single sou for my expenses.  We must to the stables and follow the Sieur de Retz forthwith to Brittany.”

“I have ten golden angels which the prior of the convent gave me at my departure,” said Laurence, with some pride.

His companion nodded approvingly.

“So much will see us through—­that is, with care.  Give them here to me,” he added after a moment’s thought; “I will pay them out with more economy, being of the country through which we pass.”