The thought of how we had taken so much and given so little smote me, and the tears that filled my eyes were in part shame.
"What are these, old friend?" and I put my hands behind my back.
"Bread and meat for the road to Paris."
"A Hellewyl of Solignac travels at his own charges."
"'Tis the right of the King—" he began.
"But I am no King," I cut in, "nothing but a homeless, ruined man."
"My King," he answered. "Take them, Monsieur Gaspard; would you shame an old friend? Your pardon, but the word is your own. Take them, of what use are they to me? If I had died last night, they'd have lain in the earth till some lout ploughed them up a hundred years hence."
But we compromised. They were my debt, but he should keep them, paying our way as we rode to Paris as friend and friend.
Thus it was that I turned my back for the first time on Solignac, travelling at the charges of my own servant and with no more gear in the world than the ragged, smoke-stained suit upon my back. Brigitta? To be frank, I had forgotten Brigitta, and Martin was too cunning a diplomatist to remind me of her.