"Postilion!" cried Nicot, pushing Le Borgne aside.
"Monsieur," continued the youth imperturbably, "I am on the king's service."
Several at the tables stretched their necks to observe the stranger. A courier from the king was not an everyday event in Rochelle. De Puys rose.
"Pah!" snorted Nicot; "you look the groom a league off. Leave the table."
"All in good time, Monsieur. If I wear the livery of a stable-boy, it is because I was compelled by certain industrious gentlemen of the road to adopt it in exchange for my own. The devil! one does not ride naked in March. They left me only my sword and papers and some pistoles which I had previously hidden in the band of my hat. Monsieur, I find a chair; I take it. Having ordered a pie, I eat it; in fact, I continue to eat it, though your displeasure causes me great sorrow. Sit down, or go away; otherwise you will annoy me; and I warn you that I am something terrible when I am annoyed." But the good nature on his face belied this statement.
"Rascal, I will flog you with the flat of my sword!" roared Nicot; and he was about to draw when a strong hand restrained him.
"Patience, comrade, patience; you go too fast." Du Puys loosened Nicot's hand.
The young man leaned back in his chair and twirled the ends of his blond mustache. "If I were not so tired I could enjoy this comedy. Horns of Panurge! did you Huguenots eat so many horses that your gorge rises at the smell of one?"
"Monsieur, are you indeed from the king?" asked Du Puys courteously. The very coolness of the stranger marked him as a man of importance.
"I have that honor."