He looked me up and down with a grin.
"Oh, one of his men! Well, my man, you must know M. le Duc is not receiving to-day."
"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."
"I am no street boy," I cried angrily. "I know Vigo well. You shall smart for flouting me, when I have Monsieur's ear."
"Aye, when you have! Be off with you, rascal. I have no time to bother with you."
"Imbecile!" I sputtered. But he had turned his back on me and resumed his pacing up and down the court.
"Oh, very well for you, monsieur," I cried out loudly, hoping he could hear me. "But you will laugh t'other side of your mouth by and by. I'll pay you off."