The messenger made an affirmative sign with his head.
“In that case,” said the guard, “I will go and seek the maitre d’hotel myself.”
The young man, in the meantime, dismounted; and whilst the others were making their remarks upon the fine horse the cavalier rode, the soldier returned.
“Your pardon, young gentleman; but your name, if you please?”
“The Vicomte de Bragelonne, on the part of his highness M. le Prince de Conde.”
The soldier made a profound bow, and, as if the name of the conqueror of Rocroi and Lens had given him wings, he stepped lightly up the steps leading to the ante-chamber.
A. de Bragelonne had not had time to fasten his horse to the iron bars of the perron, when M. de Saint-Remy came running, out of breath, supporting his capacious body with one hand, whilst with the other he cut the air as a fisherman cleaves the waves with his oar.
“Ah, Monsieur le Vicomte! You at Blois!” cried he. “Well, that is a wonder. Good-day to you—good-day, Monsieur Raoul.”
“I offer you a thousand respects, M. de Saint-Remy.”
“How Madame de la Vall—I mean, how delighted Madame de Saint-Remy will be to see you! But come in. His royal highness is at breakfast—must he be interrupted? Is the matter serious?”