‘You are just in time, sir,’ the latter said, breathing hard, but speaking with a preciseness which sounded familiar. ‘I am obliged to you, sir, whoever you are. The villains had got me down, and in a few minutes more would have made my mother childless. By the way, you have no light, have you?’ he continued, lisping like a woman.
One of M. de Rambouillet’s men, who had by this time come up, cried out that it was Monsieur Francois.
‘Yes, blockhead!’ the young gentleman answered with the utmost coolness. ‘But I asked for a light, not for my name.
‘I trust you are not hurt, sir?’ I said, putting up my sword.
‘Scratched only,’ he answered, betraying no surprise on learning who it was had come up so opportunely; as he no doubt did learn from my voice, for he continued with a bow, a slight price to pay for the knowledge that M. de Marsac is as forward on the field as on the stairs.’
I bowed my acknowledgments.
‘This fellow,’ I said, ‘is he much hurt?’
‘Tut, tut! I thought I had saved the marshal all trouble, M. Francois replied. ‘Is he not dead, Gil?’
The poor wretch made answer for himself, crying out piteously, and in a choking voice, for a priest to shrive him. At that moment Simon Fleix returned with our torch, which he had lighted at the nearest cross-streets, where there was a brazier, and we saw by this light that the man was coughing up blood, and might live perhaps half an hour.
‘Mordieu! That comes of thrusting too high!’ M. Francois muttered, regretfully. An inch lower, and there would have been none of this trouble! I suppose somebody must fetch one. Gil,’ he continued, ‘run, man, to the sacristy in the Rue St. Denys, and get a Father. Or—stay! Help to lift him under the lee of the wall there. The wind cuts like a knife here.’