At once the sinister shadow of the Bastille seemed to fall before the poor lover; instead of the charming image that he had retained of the marquise and her smile, he saw dungeons, cells, black bread, questionable water; he knew the story of Latude, thirty years an inmate of the Bastille. Little by little his hope seemed to be taking to itself wings. “And yet,” he again said to himself, “I am doing no harm, nor the King either. I protest against an injustice; but I never wrote or sang scurrilous songs. I was so well received at Versailles yesterday, and the lackeys were so polite! What am I afraid of? Of committing a blunder? I shall make many more which will repair this one.” He approached the gate and touched it with his finger. It was not quite closed. He opened it, and resolutely entered. The gatekeeper turned round with a look of annoyance. “What are you looking for? Where are you going?” “I am going to Madame de Pompadour.” “Have you an audience?” “Yes.” “Where is your letter?” He was no longer the “marquis” of the night before, and, this time, there was no Duc d’Aumont. The chevalier lowered his eyes sadly, and noticed that his white stockings and Rhinestone buckles were covered with dust. He had made the mistake of coming on foot, in a region where no one walked. The gatekeeper also bent his eyes, and scanned him, not from head to foot, but from foot to head. The dress seemed neat enough, but the hat was rather askew, and the hair lacked powder. “You have no letter. What do you wish?” “I wish to speak to Madame de Pompadour.” “Really! And you think this is the way it is done?” “I know nothing about it. Is the King here?” “Perhaps. Go about your business and leave me alone.” The chevalier did not wish to lose his temper, but, in spite of himself, this insolence made him turn pale. “I sometimes have told a lackey to go away,” he replied, “but a lackey never said so to me.” “Lackey! I a lackey?” exclaimed the enraged gatekeeper. “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.”