"Aye," laughed the sentry, "your duke. This is where he lodges, over the saddler's."
He knocked with the butt of his musket on the door. The shutter above creaked open, and a voice—Monsieur's voice—asked, "Who's there?"
Mademoiselle was concealed in the embrasure of the doorway; Gilles and I stepped back into the street where Monsieur could see us.
"Gilles Forestier and Félix Broux, Monsieur, just from Paris, with news."
"Wait."
"Is it all right, M. le Duc?" the sentry asked, saluting.
"Yes," Monsieur answered, closing the shutter.
The soldier, with another salute to the blank window, and a nod of "Good-by, then," to us, went back to his post. Left in darkness, we presently heard Monsieur's quick step on the flags of the hall, and the clatter of the bolts. He opened to us, standing there fully dressed, with a guttering candle.
"My son?" he said instantly.
Mademoiselle, crouching in the shadow of the door-post, pushed me forward. I saw I was to tell him.