“They say so, but that is all; he is not of very good birth. But see, there is M. le Duc d’Anjou calling to you.”
“Ah! ma foi, he must wait. I am curious about this man. I find him singular, I hardly know why. And such an odd name.”
“Oh! it comes from Mons Soricis; Livarot knows all about that.—Here, Livarot; this Monsoreau——”
“Well.”
“Tell us what you know about him——”
“Willingly. Firstly, I am afraid of him.”
“Good, that is what you think; now tell us what you know.”
“Listen. I was going home one night——”
“It begins in a terrible manner.”
“Pray let me finish. It was about six months ago, I was returning from my uncle D’Entragues, through the wood of Méridor, when all at once I heard a frightful cry, and I saw pass, with an empty saddle, a white horse, rushing through the wood. I rode on, and at the end of a long avenue, darkened by the approaching shades of night, I saw a man on a black horse; he seemed to fly. Then I heard again the same cry, and I distinguished before him on the saddle a woman, on whose mouth he had his hand. I had a gun in my hand—you know I aim well, and I should have killed him, but my gun missed fire.”