_"The very pattern of a king."_
The next world appeared to be strangely like this. I found myself lying
on a straw bed in a little low attic, my head resting comfortably on
some one's shoulder, while some one else poured wine down my gullet.
Presently I discovered that Maître Jacques's was the ministering hand,
M. Étienne's the shoulder. After all, this was not heaven, but still
Paris.
I had no desire to speak so long as the flow of old Jacques's best
Burgundy continued; but when he saw my eyes wide open, he stopped, and I
said, my voice, to my surprise, very faint and quavery:
"What happened?"
"Dear, brave lad! You fainted!"
My lord's voice was as unsteady as mine.
"But the ladder?" I murmured.
"The ladder broke. But you had hold beyond the break. You hung on till
we seized you. And then you swooned."
"What a baby!" I said, getting to my feet. "But the men, monsieur?
Peyrot?"
"I think we've seen the last of those worthies. They took to their heels
when you escaped them."
"But, monsieur, they've gone to inform! You'll be taken for killing
Lucas."
"I doubt it. Themselves smell too strong of blood to dare bruit the
matter. Natheless, if you can walk now, we'll make good time to the
gate."
But for all his haste, he would not start till I had had some bread and
soup down in the kitchen.
"We must take good care of you, boy Félix," he said. "For where the St.
Quentins would be without you, I tremble to think."
I set out a new man. In three steps, it seemed to me, we had reached the
city gate, to find the way blocked by a company of twenty or thirty
horse, the St. Quentin uniform flaunting gay in the sun. The nearest
trooper set up a shout at sight of us, when Vigo, coming out suddenly
from behind a nag, took M. le Comte in his big embrace. He released him
immediately, looking immensely startled at his own demonstration.