“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.” “_You_--you valet!” said the chevalier, getting angry again and once more seizing his sword. “Yes, I,” repeated the big man. But during this conversation, in which the historian regrets to have compromised his hero, thick clouds had darkened the sky; a storm was brewing. A flash of lightning burst forth, followed by a violent peal of thunder, and the rain began to fall heavily. The chevalier, who still held his gold, saw a drop of water on his dusty shoe as large as a crown piece. “Peste!” said he, “let us find shelter. It would never do to get wet.” He turned nimbly toward the den of Cerberus, or, if you please, the gatekeeper’s lodge. Once in there, he threw himself unceremoniously into the big armchair of the gatekeeper himself. “Heavens! How you annoy me!” said he, “and how unfortunate I am! You take me for a conspirator, and you do not understand that I have in my pocket a petition for his Majesty! If I am from the country, you are nothing but a dolt.” The gatekeeper, for answer, went to a corner to fetch his halberd, and remained standing thus with the weapon in his fist. “When are you going away?” he cried out in a stentorian voice. The quarrel, in turn forgotten and taken up again, seemed this time to be becoming quite serious, and already the gatekeeper’s two big hands trembled strangely on his pike;--what was to happen? I do not know. But, suddenly turning his head--“Ah!” said the chevalier, “who comes here?” A young page mounted on a splendid horse (not an English one;--at that time thin legs were not the fashion) came up at full speed. The road was soaked with rain; the gate was but half open. There was a pause; the keeper advanced and opened the gate. The page spurred his horse, which had stopped for the space of an instant; it tried to resume its gait, but missed its footing, and, slipping on the damp ground, fell. It is very awkward, almost dangerous, to raise a fallen horse. A riding-whip is of no use. The kicking of the beast, which is doing its best, is extremely disagreeable, especially when one’s own leg is caught under the saddle. The chevalier, however, came to the rescue without thinking of these inconveniences, and set about it so cleverly that the horse was soon raised and the rider freed. But the latter was covered with mud and could scarcely limp along.