Pascal, unwilling to be recognized in his disguise, would have avoided him, but Dauban made this impracticable, and thus Pascal was reduced to the device of drawing his cowl close so as to hide his features so far as possible.
“Give you gooden, good father?” began Dauban.
“Pax vobiscum, son,” replied Pascal, deepening and altering his voice.
“Can I help you, father? I am of the household here—the secretary.”
“Then truly you may. I have a message I would deliver to miladi of Malincourt, and would have speech with her.”
“I know her business well and am high in her confidence. Is it a matter of urgency? I am even now on my way to her.”
“Could you get to her at once, or deliver a letter secretly?”
“That would be easy enough—the letter I mean.”
“Can I trust you?” Dauban met the piercing eyes fixed on him through the close drawn cowl, as if in suspicion, and answered as he thought with cunning frankness.
“That must be as you please. Miladi herself does. But you must decide quickly, for she waits for me.”