_A divided duty._
That was Vigo's way. The toughest snarl untangled at his touch. He had
more sense and fewer airs than any other, he saw at once that I was in
earnest; and Constant's voluble protests were as so much wind. The title
does not make the man. Though Constant was Master of the Household and
Vigo only Equery, yet Vigo ruled every corner of the establishment and
every man in it, save only Monsieur, who ruled him.
He said no word to me as we climbed the broad stair; neither reproved me
for the fracas nor questioned me about my coming. He would not pry into
Monsieur's business; and, save as I concerned Monsieur, he had no
interest in me whatsoever. He led the way straight into an antechamber,
where a page sprang up to bar our passage.
"No one may enter, M. Vigo, not even you. M. le Duc has ordered it. Why,
Félix! You in Paris!"
"I enter," said Vigo; and, sweeping Marcel aside, he knocked loudly.
"I came last night," I found time to say under my breath to my old
comrade before the door was opened.
The handsome secretary whom I had taken for the count stood in the
doorway looking askance at us. He knew me at once and wondered.
"You cannot enter, Vigo. M. le Duc is occupied."
He made to shut the door, but Vigo's foot was over the sill.
"Natheless, I must enter," he answered unabashed and pushed his way into
the room.
"Then you must answer for it," returned the secretary, with a scowl that
sat ill on his delicate face.
"_You_ shall answer for it if it turns out a mare's nest," said Vigo, in
a low, meaning voice to me. But I hardly heard him. I passed him and
Lucas, and flew down the long room to Monsieur.
M. le Duc was seated before a table heaped with papers. He had been
watching the scene at the door in surprise and anger. He looked at me
with a sharp frown, while the deer-hound at his feet rose on its
haunches growling.
"Roland!" I said. The dog sprang up and came to me.
"Félix Broux!" Monsieur exclaimed, with his quick, warm smile--a smile
no man in France could match for radiance.
I had no thought of kneeling, of making obeisance, of waiting permission
to speak.
"Monsieur," I cried, half choked, "there is a plot--a vile plot to
murder you!"
"Where? At St. Quentin?"
"No, Monsieur. Here in Paris. In the streets to-night, when you go to
the king."
Monsieur sprang to his feet, his hand on his sword. Lucas turned white.
Vigo swore. Monsieur cried:
"How, in God's name, know you that?"
"You have been betrayed, Monsieur. Your plan is known. You leave the
house to-night, near a quarter of eleven, to go in secret to the king.
You leave by the little door in the alley--"
"Diable!" breathed Vigo.
"They set on you on your way--three of them--to run you through before
you can draw."
"But, ventre bleu! Monsieur is not alone."
"No; he walks between you and M. Lucas."
Not one of them spoke. They stared at me as if I were something uncanny.
I, a raw country boy, disclosing a perfect knowledge of their most
intimate plans!
"How know you this?" Monsieur demanded of me. But he was not looking at
me. His keen glance went first to Lucas, then to Vigo, the two men who
had shared his confidence. The secretary cried out:
"You cannot think, Monsieur, that I betrayed you?"
Vigo said nothing. His steady eyes never left Monsieur's face.
"No," answered Monsieur to Lucas, "I cannot think it." And to Vigo he
said: "I shall accuse you when I accuse myself. But--none knew this
thing save our three selves." And his gaze went back to Lucas.
"It is not likely to be he," I said, impelled to be just to him though I
did not like him, "for they meant to kill him as well."
Lucas started, then instantly recovered himself.
"A comprehensive plot, Monsieur," he said, with a smile.
"Then who was it?" cried Monsieur to me. "You know. Speak."
"There is a spy in the house--an eavesdropper," I said, and then paused.
"Aye?" said Monsieur. "Who?"
Now the answer to this was easy, yet I flinched before it; for I knew
well enough what Monsieur would do. He feared no man, and waited on no
man's advice. And if he was a good lover, he was a good hater. He would
not inform the governor, and await the tardy course of justice, that
would probably accomplish--nothing. Nor would he consider the troubled
times and the danger of his position, and ignore the affair, as many
would have deemed best. He would not stop to think what the Sixteen
might have to say to it. No; he would call out his guards and slay the
plotters in the Rue Coupejarrets like the wolves they were. It was right
he should, but--I owed my life to Yeux-gris.
"His name, man, his name!" Monsieur was crying.
"Monsieur," I returned, flushing hot, "Monsieur--"
"Do you know his name?"
"Yes, Monsieur, I know his name, but--"
Monsieur looked at me in surprise and frowning, impatience. Quickly
Lucas struck in:
"Monsieur, I have grave doubts of the boy's honesty."
"Doubts!" cried Monsieur, with a sudden laugh. "It is not a case for
doubts. The boy states facts."
He seated himself in his chair, his face growing stern again. The little
action seemed to make him no longer merely my questioner, but my judge.
"Now, Félix Broux, let us get to the bottom of this."
"Monsieur," I began, struggling to put the case clearly, "I learned of
the plot by accident. I did not guess for a long time it was you who
were the victim. When I found out that, I came straight here to you.
Monsieur, there are four men in the plot, and one of them has stood my
friend."
"And my assassin!"
"He is a black-hearted villain!" I acknowledged. "For he swore no harm
was meant to you. He swore it was only a private grudge against M.
Lucas. But when one of them let out the truth I came straight to you."
"That is likely true," said Vigo, "for he was ready to kill the men who
barred his way."
"You were in a plot to kill my secretary!"
"Ah, Monsieur!" I cried.
"You--Félix Broux!"