“Lackey, doorkeeper, valet, or menial, I care not, and it matters little.”
The gatekeeper made a step toward the chevalier with clenched fists and face aflame. The chevalier, brought to himself by the appearance of a threat, lifted the handle of his sword slightly.
“Take care, fellow,” said he, “I am a gentleman, and it would cost me but thirty-six livres to put a boor like you under ground.”
“If you are a nobleman, monsieur, I belong to the King; I am only doing my duty; so do not think—”
At this moment the flourish of a hunting-horn sounding from the Bois de Satory was heard afar, and lost itself in the echo. The chevalier allowed his sword to drop into its scabbard, no longer thinking of the interrupted quarrel.
“I declare,” said he, “it is the King starting for the hunt! Why did you not tell me that before?”
“That has nothing to do with me, nor with you either.”
“Listen to me, my good man. The King is not here; I have no letter, I have no audience. Here is some money for you; let me in.”
He drew from his pocket several pieces of gold. The gatekeeper scanned him anew with a superb contempt.
“What is that?” said he, disdainfully. “Is it thus you seek to penetrate into a royal dwelling? Instead of making you go out, take care I don’t lock you in.”