In the evening Raoul and John Humphreys met at my rooms and I informed them of my discovery. The Englishman thought little of it, saying Pillot was likely to keep out of my way, but Raoul, like myself, fancied he had some reason for his strange behaviour.
"The fellow isn't afraid for himself," he declared. "He knows Condé will not touch him, and besides, he is a plucky rascal. Depend on it, there is something beneath this business, and I should guess it has to do with Henri de Lalande."
"But my cousin is dead and buried!" I objected.
"Chut! You have no proof of it. He may be in hiding for what we know, and waiting his opportunity. According to all accounts, he will soon have little to fear from Condé."
"The prince is lost," exclaimed Humphreys. "Did you notice he stayed away to-day? It is rumoured in the palace that the Queen is furious, and that there is to be no more giving quarter. Condé will be an outlaw before long."
"And it is my belief," remarked Raoul, "that when Condé goes, Henri will reappear. Still, if you wish, Albert, we will help you to find Pillot."
"The worst of it is I have not the faintest idea where to look."
"We can try the house in the Rue de Roi."
"The walk will do us good," said Humphreys, "and I am off duty till midnight;" so, putting on our hats, we went into the street.
Paris was holding high holiday that evening. The buildings were decorated with flags and streamers; bonfires cast a lurid light on the animated scene; crowds of people went to and fro, laughing merrily and cheering the nobles and ladies who rode by in their gorgeous carriages. The spell of the morning was on them all; and though many realised that the troubles would soon break out more fiercely than ever, every one seemed bent on making the most of the brief truce.