won't notice you. That
arch there should serve."

We had been standing at the street corner, sheltered by a balcony over
our heads from the view of Peyrot's window.

"Monsieur," I said, "I do wish you would bring Vigo back with you."

"Felix," he laughed, "you are the worst courtier I ever saw."

I crossed the street as he told me, glancing up at the third story of
the house of the Gilded Shears. No watcher was visible. From the
archway, which was entrance to a court of tall houses, I could well
command Peyrot's door, myself in deep shadow M. Etienne nodded to me and
walked off whistling, staring full in the face every one he met.

I would fain have occupied myself as we guessed the knave Peyrot to be
doing, and shut mine aching eyes in sleep. But I was sternly determined
to be faithful to my trust, and though for my greater comfort--cold
enough comfort it was--I sat me down on the paving-stones, yet I kept my
eyelids propped open, my eyes on Peyrot's door. I was helped in carrying
out my virtuous resolve by the fact that the court was populous and my
carcass in the entrance much in the way of the busy passers-by, so that
full half of them swore at me, and the half of that half kicked me. The
hard part was that I could not fight them because of keeping my eyes on
Peyrot's door.

He delayed so long and so long that I feared with shamed misgiving I
must have let him slip, when at length, on the very stroke of eleven, he
sauntered forth. He was yawning prodigiously, but set off past my lair
at a smart pace. I followed at goodly distance, but never once did he
glance around. He led the way straight to the sign of the Bonne Femme.

[Illustration: AT THE "BONNE FEMME."]

I entered two minutes after him, passing from the cabaret, where my men
were not, to the dining-hall, where, to my relief, they were. At two
huge fireplaces savoury soups bubbled, juicy rabbits simmered, fat
capons roasted; the smell brought the tears to my eyes. A concourse of
people was about: gentles and burghers seated at table, or passing in
and out; waiters running back and forth from the fires, drawers from
the cabaret. I paused to scan the throng, jostled by one and another,
before I descried my master and my knave. M. Etienne, the prompter at
the rendezvous, had, like a philosopher, ordered dinner, but he had
deserted it now and stood with Peyrot, their backs to the company, their
elbows on the deep window-ledge, their heads close together. I