is, perjured scoundrel, in comparison with M. le Duc? And yet I
knew that at the end of the half-hour I should not tell; at the end of
the flogging I should not tell. I had warned Monsieur; that I would
have done had it been the breaking of a thousand oaths. But give up
Yeux-gris? Not if they tore me limb from limb!

"What is it all about?" cried Marcel, again. "You look as glum as a
Jesuit in Lent. What is the matter with you, Felix?"

"I have cooked my goose," I said gloomily.

"What have you done?"

"Nothing that I can speak about. But I am out of Monsieur's books."

"What was old Vigo after when he took you in to Monsieur? I never saw
anything so bold. When Monsieur says he is not to be disturbed he means
it."

I had nothing to tell him, and was silent.

"What is it? Can't you tell an old chum?"

"No; it is Monsieur's private business."

"Well, you are grumpy!" he cried out pettishly. "You must be out of
grace." He seemed to decide that nothing was to be made out of me just
now on this tack, and with unabated persistence tried another.

"Is it true, Felix, what one of the men said just now, that you tried to
speak with Monsieur this morning when he drove out?"

"Yes. But Monsieur did not recognize me."

"Like enough," Marcel answered. "He has a way of late of falling into
these absent fits. Monsieur is not the man he was."

"He does look older," I said, "and worn. I trow the risk he is
running--"

"Pshaw!" cried Marcel, with scorn. "Is Monsieur a man to mind risks? No;
it is M. le Comte."

I started like a guilty thing, remembering what Yeux-gris had told me
and I, wrapped in my petty troubles, had forgotten. Monsieur had lost
his only son. And I had chosen this time to defy him!

"How long ago was it?" I asked in a hushed voice.

"Since M. le Comte left us? It will be three weeks next Friday."

"How did he die?"

"Die?" echoed Marcel. "You crazy fellow, he is not dead!"

It was my turn to stare.

"Then where is he?"

"It would be money in my pouch if I knew. What made you think him dead,
Felix?"

"A man told me so."

"Pardieu!" he cried in some excitement. "When? Who was it?"

"To-day. I do not know the man's name."

"It seems you know very little. Pardieu! I do not believe M. le Comte is
dead. What else did your man say?"

"Nothing. He only said the Comte de Mar was dead."

"Pshaw! I don't believe it. You believe everything you hear because you
are just from the country. No; if