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Updated: May 10, 2025
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.
He was a young man of a decidedly bourgeois appearance, as if he were not much, outside of his uniform. "My name is Félix Broux," I said. "I came to pay a bill " "His servant," Maître Menard contrived to murmur, the dragoon allowing him a breath. "Oh, you are the Comte de Mar's servant, are you? Where have you left your master?" "What do you want of him?" I asked in turn. "Never you mind.
Many of the great violin names, in fact, Vieuxtemps, Léonard*, Marsick, Remi, Parent, de Broux, Musin, Thomson, are all Belgian." Ysaye spoke of Vieuxtemps's repertory only he did not call it that: he spoke of the Vieuxtemps compositions and of Vieuxtemps himself. "Vieuxtemps wrote in the grand style; his music is always rich and sonorous.
"From M. de Valère?" "No." "Then who the devil are you?" "Félix Broux of St. Quentin." "Ah, St. Quentin," he said, as if he found that rather tame. "You bring news from there?" "No, I do not. Think you I shall tell you? This news is for Monsieur." "It won't reach Monsieur unless you learn politeness toward the gentlemen of his household," he retorted.
"No," said I, seeing that I had been fooled and had had all my terrors for naught, and feeling much chagrined thereat. "How was I to know it was a lie? I know naught about Paris. I came up but yesterday from St. Quentin." "St. Quentin!" came a cry from the henchman. With a fierce "Be quiet, fool!" Gervais turned to me and demanded my name. "Félix Broux." "Who sent you here?" "Monsieur, no one."
Constant's face of surprise at me changed to one of malice. Down at St. Quentin he had suffered much from us pages, as a slow, peevish old dotard must. I had played many a prank on him, but I had not thought he would revenge himself at such time as this. He looked at me with a spiteful grin, and said to the men: "He lies. I do not know him. I never saw him." "Never saw me, Félix Broux!"
He regarded me curiously. "The duke's life seems much to you." "Why, monsieur, I am a Broux." "And could not be disloyal to save your life?" "My life! Monsieur, the Broux would not seek to save their souls if M. le Duc preferred them damned." I expected he would rebuke me for the outburst, but he did not; he merely said: "And Lucas?" "Oh, Lucas!" I said. "I know nothing of him.
He was also the man to sit in the presence of his enemy, unbetraying, tranquil, assured, waiting. It seemed to me that in a few minutes more of this I should go mad; I should scream out: "Yes, I am Félix Broux, and he is M. le Comte de Mar!" But before I had verily come to this, something happened to change the situation. Entered like a young tempest, slamming the door after him, Lucas.
"He forgets it." "But I do not." "Monsieur, will you have no vengeance?" Monsieur looked at me. "When you are a man, Félix Broux, you will know that there are other things in this world besides vengeance. You will know that some injuries cannot be avenged. You will know that a gentleman cannot use the same weapons that blackguards use to him." "Ah, Monsieur!" I cried.
What mattered it that already I ached in every bone, that the stair was long and my bed but a heap of straw in the garret of a mean inn in a poor quarter? I was in Paris, the city of my dreams! I am a Broux of St. Quentin. The great world has never heard of the Broux? No matter; they have existed these hundreds of years, Masters of the Forest, and faithful servants of the dukes of St. Quentin.
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