_The honour of St. Quentin._
Monsieur was seated at his table, talking in a low tone and hurriedly to
Lucas. They started and stared as I broke in upon them, and then
Monsieur cried out to me:
"Ah, Félix! You have come to your senses."
"I will tell Monsieur all, the whole story."
He tested my honesty with a glance, then looked beyond me at Marcel,
standing agape in the doorway.
"Leave us, Marcel. Go down-stairs. Leave that door open, and shut the
door into the corridor."
Marcel obeyed. Monsieur turned to me with a smile.
"Now, Félix."
I had hardly been able to hold my words back while Marcel was disposed
of.
"Monsieur, I knew not, myself, the names of those men. Now I have found
out. They--"
My eyes met the secretary's fixed excitedly upon me and the words died
on my tongue. Even in my rage I had the grace to know that this was no
story to tell Monsieur before another.
"I will tell Monsieur alone."
"You may speak before M. Lucas," he rejoined impatiently.
"No," I persisted. "I must tell Monsieur alone."
He saw in my face that I had strong reasons for asking it, and said to
the secretary:
"You may go, Lucas."
Lucas protested.
"M. le Duc will be wiser not to see him alone. He is not to be trusted.
Perchance, Monsieur, this demand covers an attack on your life."
The warning nettled my lord. He answered curtly:
"You may go."
"Monsieur--"
"Go!"
Lucas passed out, giving me, as he went, a look of hatred that startled
me. But I did not pay it much heed.
"Well!" exclaimed Monsieur.
But by this time I had bethought myself what a story it was I had to
tell a father of his son. I could not blurt it out in two words. I stood
silent, not knowing how to start.
"Félix! Beware how much longer you abuse my patience!"
"Monsieur," I began, "the spy in the house is named Martin."
"Ah!" cried Monsieur. "So it is Louis Martin. How he knew--But go on.
The others--"
"I lay the night in the Rue Coupejarrets, not far from the St. Denis
gate," I said, still beating about the bush, "at the sign of the Amour
de Dieu. Opposite is a closed house, shuttered with iron from garret
to cellar. You can enter from a court behind. It is here that they
plot."
[Illustration: "WITH A CRY MONSIEUR SPRANG TOWARD ME."]
Monsieur's brows drew together, as if he were trying to recall something
half remembered, half forgotten.
"But the men," he cried, "the men!"
"They are three. One a low fellow named Pontou."
"Pontou? The name is nothing to me. The others?" He was leaning forward
eagerly. I knew of what he was thinking--the quickest way to reach the
Rue Coupejarrets.
"There are two others, Monsieur," I said slowly. "Young men--noble."