But my suspicions perished even as they were begotten. There was so momentous, so alarmingly warning a look on his face as he whispered the one word “Monseigneur!” that clearly if danger there was to me it was not from him.
“What the devil—” I began.
But at the sound of my voice the alarm grew in his eyes.
“Sh!” he whispered, his finger on his lips. “Be silent, monseigneur, for Heaven's sake!”
Very softly he closed the door; softly, yet painfully, he hobbled forward to my side.
“There is a plot to murder you, monseigneur,” he whispered.
“What! Here at Blagnac?”
He nodded fearfully.
“Bah!” I laughed. “You rave, man. Who was to know that I was to come this way? And who is there to plot against my life?”
“Monsieur de Saint-Eustache.” he answered.