whatever Monsieur
replies, I must go tell him I repent."

I came forward to kiss his hand, I was so pleased.

"Oh, you look very smiling over it," he cried. "Think you I like
sneaking back home again like a whipped hound to his kennel?"

"But," I protested, indignant, "monsieur is not a whipped hound."

"Well, a prodigal son, as Lucas named me yesterday. It is the same
thing."

"I have heard M. l'Abbe read the story of the prodigal son," I said.
"And he was a vaurien, if you like--no more monsieur's sort than Lucas
himself. But it says that when his father saw him coming a long way off,
he ran out to meet him and fell on his neck."

M. Etienne looked not altogether convinced.

"Well, however it turns out, it must be gone through with. It is only
decent to go to Monsieur. But even at that, I think I should not go if
it were not for mademoiselle."

"You will beg his aid, monsieur?"

"I will beg his advice at least. For how you and I are to carry off
mademoiselle under Mayenne's hand--well, I confess for the nonce that
beats me."

"We must do it, monsieur," I cried.

"Aye, and we will! Come, Felix, you may put your knife in my dish. We
must eat and be off. The meats have got cold and the wine warm, but
never mind."

I did not mind, but was indeed thankful to get any dinner at all. Once
resolved on the move, he was in a fever to be off; it was not long
before we were in the streets, bound for the Hotel St. Quentin. He said
no more of Monsieur as we walked, but plied me with questions about
Mlle. de Montluc--not only as to every word she said, but as to every
turn of her head and flicker of her eyelids; and he called me a dull oaf
when I could not answer. But as we entered the Quartier Marais he fell
silent, more Friday-faced than ever his lady looked. He had his fair
allowance of pride, this M. Etienne; he found his own words no palatable
meal.

However, when we came within a dozen paces of the gate he dropped, as
one drops a cloak, all signs of gloom or discomposure, and approached
the entrance with the easy swagger of the gay young gallant who had
lived there. As if returning from a morning stroll he called to the
sentry:

"Hola, squinting Charlot! Open now!"

"Morbleu, M. le Comte!" the fellow exclaimed, running to draw the bolts.
"Well, this is a sight for sore eyes, anyway."

M. Etienne laughed out in pleasure. It put heart into him, I could see,
that his first greeting should be thus friendly.