With that he turned on his heel, swaggering away in the full enjoyment of his triumph.  For a triumph it was.  We stood stunned; ashamed to look one another in the face.  Of course the shoot was open.  We remembered now that it was, and we were so sorely mortified by his knowledge and our folly, that I failed in my courtesy, and did not see him to the gate, as I should have done.  We paid for that later.

“He is the devil in person!” I exclaimed angrily, shaking my fist at the House of the Wolf, as I strode up and down impatiently.  “I hate him worse!”

“So do I!” said Croisette, mildly.  “But that he hates us is a matter of more importance.  At any rate we will close the shoot.”

“Wait a moment!” I replied, as after another volley of complaints directed at our visitor, the lad was moving off to see to it.  “What is going on down there?”

“Upon my word, I believe he is leaving us!” Croisette rejoined sharply.

For there was a noise of hoofs below us, clattering on the pavement.  Half-a-dozen horsemen were issuing from the House of the Wolf, the ring of their bridles and the sound of their careless voices coming up to us through the clear morning air Bezers’ valet, whom we knew by sight, was the last of them.  He had a pair of great saddle-bags before him, and at sight of these we uttered a glad exclamation.  “He is going!” I murmured, hardly able to believe my eyes.  “He is going after all!”

“Wait!” Croisette answered drily.

But I was right.  We had not to wait long.  He was going.  In another moment he came out himself, riding a strong iron-grey horse:  and we could see that he had holsters to his saddle.  His steward was running beside him, to take I suppose his last orders.  A cripple, whom the bustle had attracted from his usual haunt, the church porch, held up his hand for alms.  The Vidame as he passed, cut him savagely across the face with his whip, and cursed him audibly.

“May the devil take him!” exclaimed Croisette in just rage.  But I said nothing, remembering that the cripple was a particular pet of Catherine’s.  I thought instead of an occasion, not so very long ago, when the Vicomte being at home, we had had a great hawking party.  Bezers and Catherine had ridden up the street together, and Catherine giving the cripple a piece of money, Bezers had flung to him all his share of the game.  And my heart sank.

Only for a moment, however.  The man was gone; or was going at any rate.  We stood silent and motionless, all watching, until, after what seemed a long interval, the little party of seven became visible on the white road far below us—­to the northward, and moving in that direction.  Still we watched them, muttering a word to one another, now and again, until presently the riders slackened their pace, and began to ascend the winding track that led to the hills and Cahors; and to Paris also, if one went far enough.