Now, this merriment was a heart-warming thing to hear. For Gervais was taking the situation with a seriousness that was as terrifying as it was stupid. When I looked into his dogged eyes I could not but think the end of me might be near. But Yeux-gris's laugh said the very notion was ridiculous; I was innocent of all harmful intent, and they were gentlemen, not cutthroats.
"Messieurs," I said, "I swear by the blessed saints I am what I told you. I am no spy, and no one sent me here. Who you are, or what you do, I know no more than a babe unborn. I belong to no party and am no man's man. As for why you choose to live in this empty house, it is not my concern and I care no whit about it. Let me go, messieurs, and I will swear to keep silence about what I have seen."
"I am for letting him go," said Yeux-gris.
Gervais looked doubtful, the most encouraging attitude toward me he had yet assumed. He answered:
"If he had not said the name—"
"Stuff!" interrupted Yeux-gris. "It is a coincidence, no more. If he were what you think, it is the very last name he would have said."
This was Greek to me; I had mentioned no names but Maître Jacques's and my own. And he was their friend.
"Messieurs," I said, "if it is my name that does not please you, why, I can say for it that if it is not very high-sounding, at least it is an honest one and has ever been held so down where we live."
"And that is at St. Quentin," said Yeux-gris.
"Yes, monsieur. My father, Anton Broux, is Master of the Forest to the Duke of St. Quentin."