“I could have sworn,” exclaimed Croisette, “that that was Louis himself—­M. de Pavannes!”

“That?” I answered, as we began to move again, the crowd melting before us.  “Oh, dear, no!”

“No! no!  The farther man!” he explained.

But I had not been able to get a good look at the farther of the two.  We turned in our saddles and peered after him.  His back in the dusk certainly reminded me of Louis.  Bure, however, who said he knew M. de Pavannes by sight, laughed at the idea.  “Your friend,” he said, “is a wider man than that!” And I thought he was right there—­but then it might be the cut of the clothes.  “They have been at the Louvre playing paume, I’ll be sworn!” he went on.  “So the Admiral must be better.  The one next us was M. de Teligny, the Admiral’s son-in-law.  And the other, whom you mean, was the Comte de la Rochefoucault.”

We turned as he spoke into a narrow street near the river, and could see not far from us a mass of dark buildings which Bure told us was the Louvre—­the king’s residence.  Out of this street we turned into a short one; and here Bure drew rein and rapped loudly at some heavy gates.  It was so dark that when, these being opened, he led the way into a courtyard, we could see little more than a tall, sharp-gabled house, projecting over us against a pale sky; and a group of men and horses in one corner.  Bure spoke to one of the men, and begging us to dismount, said the footman would show us to M. de Pavannes.

The thought that we were at the end of our long journey, and in time to warn Louis of his danger, made us forget all our exertions, our fatigue and stiffness.  Gladly throwing the bridles to Jean we ran up the steps after the servant.  The thing was done.  Hurrah! the thing was done!

The house—­as we passed through a long passage and up some steps —­seemed full of people.  We heard voices and the ring of arms more than once.  But our guide, without pausing, led us to a small room lighted by a hanging lamp.  “I will inform M. de Pavannes of your arrival,” he said respectfully, and passed behind a curtain, which seemed to hide the door of an inner apartment.  As he did so the clink of glasses and the hum of conversation reached us.

“He has company supping with him,” I said nervously.  I tried to flip some of the dust from my boots with my whip.  I remembered that this was Paris.

“He will be surprised to see us,” quoth Croisette, laughing—­a little shyly, too, I think.  And so we stood waiting.

I began to wonder as minutes passed by—­the gay company we had seen putting it in my mind, I suppose—­whether M. de Pavannes, of Paris, might not turn out to be a very different person from Louis de Pavannes, of Caylus; whether the king’s courtier would be as friendly as Kit’s lover.  And I was still thinking of this without having settled the point to my satisfaction, when the curtain was thrust aside again.  A very tall man, wearing a splendid suit of black and silver and a stiff trencher-like ruff, came quickly in, and stood smiling at us, a little dog in his arms.  The little dog sat up and snarled:  and Croisette gasped.  It was not our old friend Louis certainly!  It was not Louis de Pavannes at all.  It was no old friend at all, It was the Vidame de Bezers!