“I bear no malice, young gentlemen,” he said impudently.

“No, I should think not,” I answered.

“And besides, we are quits now,” the knave continued.

“You are very kind,” I said.

“To be sure.  You did me a good turn once,” he answered, much to my surprise.  He seemed to be in earnest now.  “You do not remember it, young gentleman, but it was you and your brother here”—­he pointed to Croisette—­“did it!  And by the Pope and the King of Spain I have not forgotten it!”

“I have,” I said.

“What!  You have forgotten spitting that fellow at Caylus ten days ago?  CA!  Sa!  You remember.  And very cleanly done, too!  A pretty stroke!  Well, M. Anne, that was a clever fellow, a very clever fellow.  He thought so and I thought so, and what was more to the purpose the most noble Raoul de Bezers thought so too.  You understand!”

He leered at me and I did understand.  I understood that unwittingly I had rid Blaise Bure of a rival.  This accounted for the respectful, almost the kindly way in which he had—­well, deceived us.

“That is all,” he said.  “If you want as much done for you, let me know.  For the present, gentlemen, farewell!”

He cocked his hat fiercely, and went off at speed the way we had ourselves been going; humming as he went,

  “Ce petit homme tant joli,
   Qui toujours cause et toujours rit,
   Qui toujours baise sa mignonne
   Dieu gard’ de mal ce petit homme!”

His reckless song came back to us on the summer breeze.  We watched him make a playful pass at a corpse which some one had propped in ghastly fashion against a door—­and miss it—­and go on whistling the same air—­and then a corner hid him from view.

We lingered only a moment ourselves; merely to speak to the boy we had befriended.

“Show the books if anyone challenges you,” said Croisette to him shrewdly.  Croisette was so much of a boy himself, with his fair hair like a halo about his white, excited face, that the picture of the two, one advising the other, seemed to me a strangely pretty one.  “Show the books and point to the cross on them.  And Heaven send you safe to your college.”

“I would like to know your name, if you please,” said the boy.  His coolness and dignity struck me as admirable under the circumstances.  “I am Maximilian de Bethune, son of the Baron de Rosny.”

“Then,” said Croisette briskly, “one good turn has deserved another.  Your father, yesterday, at Etampes—­no it was the day before, but we have not been in bed—­warned us—­”

He broke off suddenly; then cried, “Run! run!”

The boy needed no second warning indeed.  He was off like the wind down the street, for we had seen and so had he, the stealthy approach of two or three prowling rascals on the look out for a victim.  They caught sight of him and were strongly inclined to follow him; but we were their match in numbers.  The street was otherwise empty at the moment:  and we showed them three excellent reasons why they should give him a clear start.