"No."
"Then who the devil are you?"
"Félix Broux of St. Quentin."
"Ah, St. Quentin," he said, as if he found that rather tame. "You bring news from there?"
"No, I do not. Think you I shall tell you? This news is for Monsieur."
"It won't reach Monsieur unless you learn politeness toward the gentlemen of his household," he retorted.
We were getting into a lively quarrel when Constant appeared on the stairway—Constant and the lackey who had fetched him, and two more lackeys, and a page, all of whom had somehow scented that something was in the wind. They came flocking about us as I said:
"Ah, M. Constant! You know me, Félix Broux of St. Quentin. I must see M. le Duc."
Constant's face of surprise at me changed to one of malice. Down at St. Quentin he had suffered much from us pages, as a slow, peevish old dotard must. I had played many a prank on him, but I had not thought he would revenge himself at such time as this. He looked at me with a spiteful grin, and said to the men:
"He lies. I do not know him. I never saw him."