"Be more careful, I beg you, Vigo! You will make me imagine myself of
some importance."
"I thought you swallowed up," Vigo growled. "You had been here--I
couldn't get a trace of you."
"I was killing Lucas."
"Sacré! He's dead?"
"Dead."
"That's the best morning's work ever you did, M. Étienne."
"Have you horse for us, Vigo?"
"Of course. Some of the men will walk. I suppose we're leaving Paris to
buy you out of the Bastille?"
"Not worth it, eh, Vigo?"
"Yes," said Vigo, gravely--"yes, M. Étienne. You are worth it."
Vigo's troop was but slow-moving, as some of the horses carried double,
some were loaded with chattels. M. Étienne and I, on the duke's
blood-chargers, soon left the cavalcade behind us. Before I knew it, we
were halted at the outpost of the camp. My lord gave his name.
"To be sure!" cried the sentry. "We've orders about you. You dine with
the king, M. de Mar."
"Mordieu! I do?"
"You do. Orders are to take you to him out of hand. Captain!"
The officer lounged out of the tavern door.
"Captain, M. de Mar."
"Oh, aye!" cried the captain, coming forward with brisk interest. "M. de
Mar, you're the child of luck. You dine with the king."
"I am the child of bewilderment, captain."
"And you've not too much time to recover from it, M. le Comte. You are
to go straight to the king."
"I may go to M. de St. Quentin's lodgings first?"
"No, monsieur; straight to the king."
"What! in my shirt?"
"I can't help it, monsieur," the captain laughed. "I suppose the king
did not guess you were coming in your shirt. Anyway, his order was to
fetch you direct. And direct you go. But never care. Our king's no
stickler for toggery. He's known what it is himself to lack for a coat."
"I might wash my face, then."
"Certainly. No harm in that."
So M. Étienne went into the tournebride and washed his face. And that
was all the toilet he made for audience with the greatest king in the
world.
"You'll ride to Monsieur's," he commanded me, when the captain answered:
"No; he goes with you, monsieur, if he's the boy Choux, Troux, whatever
it is."
"Broux--Félix Broux!" I cried, a-quiver.
"That's it. You go to the king, too. Another luck-child."
I thought so indeed. We followed the sentry through the town in a waking
dream, content to let him do with us as he would. He did the talking,
explained to the grandees in the king's hall our names and errand. One
of them led us up the stairs and knocked at a closed door.
"Enter!"
It was Henry's own voice. I pinched monsieur's hand to tell him. Our
guide opened the door a crack.
"M. de Mar, Sire, and his servant."
"Good, La Force. Let them enter."
M. La Force fairly pushed us over the sill, so abashed were we, and shut
the door upon us.
The king was alone. But before this simple gentleman in the rusty black,
M. Étienne caught his breath as he had not done before a court in full
pomp. He had seen courts, but he had never seen the first soldier of
Europe. He advanced three steps into the room, and forgot to kneel,
forgot to lower his gaze in the presence, but merely stared wide-eyed at
majesty, as majesty stared at him. Thus they stood surveying each other
from top to toe in the frankest curiosity, till at length the king
spoke:
"M. de Mar, you look less like a carpet-knight than I expected."