The scenes that he had witnessed, and the near approach of violent death, had cowed the fellow completely, and he hung his head, sullen and wretched to the last degree.
“I hid here to escape these savages,” he said, “and had no thought of seeing you, Maître le Bastien.”
“That may be!” retorted the goldsmith sharply, “but when you saw only M. de Cernay and me here, why did you lurk like a snake in the bushes!”
Michaud turned deeply red and glanced aside at me.
“I thought that you despised me,” he said bluntly, “and could well dispense with the sight of me.”
But Le Bastien was not appeased, and would have said more but that I interposed.
“We cannot judge him too severely, monsieur,” I said, laughing; “only last night I hid in a wine-butt!”
The goldsmith, who knew me for a choleric man and a fighter, smiled in spite of himself at this, and Michaud cast a look of something akin to gratitude at me. The fellow loved his master. I myself had once just such a follower, devoted to jealousy, and full of sullen fits and the changeful moods of a woman.
“You speak truly, M. le Marquis,” said Le Bastien thoughtfully; “we cannot judge too harshly; but where have you been, Michaud?”
“I got out of the palace in the tumult, monsieur,” replied the apprentice, “and I have been hiding in one place and another, ever since; only an hour ago I got out of the Kremlin through the kindness of a soldier, whom I knew, and who got me through the guard at the Gate of Saint Nikolas, for a rouble—all I had.”