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Then there was the opportunity, man to man. If it were Grammont or the lackey, I would boldly declare that I would give my news to none but Yeux-gris. In pursuance of this plan I was pounding vigorously on the door when a voice behind me cried out blithely: "So you are back at last, Félix Broux" At the first word I wheeled around. In the court entrance stood Yeux-gris, smiling and debonair.
Who talks of Monsieur's life?" The guards halted dead, and I cried out joyfully: "Vigo!" "Yes, I am Vigo," the big man answered, striding down the stairs. "Who are you?" I wanted to shout, "Félix Broux, Monsieur's page," but a sort of nightmare dread came over me lest Vigo, too, should disclaim me, and my voice stuck in my throat.
"I am Félix Broux," I told him. "You may be Félix anybody for all it avails; you cannot see Monsieur." "Then I will see Vigo." Vigo was Monsieur's Master of Horse, the staunchest man in France. This sentry was nobody, just a common fellow picked up since Monsieur left St. Quentin, but Vigo had been at his side these twenty years. "Vigo, say you! Vigo does not see street boys."
Yeux-gris answered it with cold politeness: "That Félix Broux may pass out." "By Heaven, he shall not!" "You gave your word you would leave him to me. Did you lie?" "I do leave him to you!" Gervais thundered. "I would slit his impudent throat; but since you love him, you may have him to eat out of your plate and sleep in your bosom. I will put up with it.
And if he goes counter to Monsieur's interests he is a traitor, Broux or no Broux. He has no claim to be treated as other than an enemy. These are serious times. Monsieur does not well to play with his dangers. The boy must tell what he knows. Am I to go for the boot, Monsieur?" M. le Duc was silent for a moment, while the hot flush that had sprung to his face died away.
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.
We were getting into a lively quarrel when Constant appeared on the stairway Constant and the lackey who had fetched him, and two more lackeys, and a page, all of whom had somehow scented that something was in the wind. They came flocking about us as I said: "Ah, M. Constant! You know me, Félix Broux of St. Quentin. I must see M. le Duc."
"Afterward that is, yesterday Paul went to M. de Belin and swore against M. de Mar that he had murdered a lackey in his house in the Rue Coupejarrets. The lackey was murdered there, but Paul de Lorraine did it. The man knew the plot; Paul killed him to stop his tongue. I heard him confess it to M. de Mayenne. I and this Félix Broux were in the oratory and heard it." "Then M. de Mar was arrested?"
But you don't help me when you let loose a spy to warn Lucas." "He shall not go. You know well, cousin, you will be no gladder than I when that knave is dead. But I will not have Félix Broux suffer because he dared speak for the Duke of St. Quentin." "As you choose, then. I will not touch a hair of his head if you keep him from Lucas." Once more he turned away across the room.
"Laugh if you like; but I tell you, Félix Broux, my lord's council-chamber is not the only place where they make kings. We do it, too, we of the Rue Coupejarrets." "Well," said I, "I leave you, then, to make kings. I must be off to my duke. What's the scot, maître?" He dropped the politician, and was all innkeeper in a second. "A crown!" I cried in indignation. "Do you think I am made of crowns?
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