ademoiselle being given into Dame Verney's motherly hands, Gilles and I were ordered to repose ourselves on the skins in the saddler's shop. Lying there in the malodourous gloom, I could see the crack of light under the door at the back and hear, between Gilles's snores, the murmur of voices. The king and his gentlemen were planning to save my master; I went to sleep in perfect peace.
At daybreak, even before the saddler opened the shop, Monsieur routed us out.
"I'm off for Paris, lads. Félix comes with me. Gilles stays to guard mademoiselle."
I felt not a little injured, deeming that I, whom mademoiselle knew best, should not be the one chosen to stay by her. But the sting passed quickly. After all, Paris was likely to be more exciting than St. Denis.
The day being Friday, we delayed not to eat, but straightway mounted the two nags that a sunburnt Béarn pikeman had brought to the door. As we walked them gently across the square, which at this rath hour we alone shared with the twittering birds, we saw coming down one of the empty streets the hurrying figure of M. de Rosny. My lord drew rein at once.
"You are no slugabed, St. Quentin," the young councillor called. "I deserved to miss you. Fear not! I come not to hinder you, but to wish you God-speed."
"Now, this is kind, Rosny," Monsieur answered, grasping his hand. "The more that you don't approve me."
Rosny smiled, like a sudden burst of sunshine in a December day. Another man's embrace would have meant less.
"I approve you so much, St. Quentin, that I cannot composedly see you putting your head into the lion's jaws."