"I used to be Monsieur's page down at St. Quentin," I answered, deeming the straight truth best. "When we learned that he was in Paris, my father sent me up to him. I reached the city last night, and lay at the Amour de Dieu. This morning I went to the duke's hôtel, but the guard would not let me in. Then, when Monsieur drove out I tried to get speech with him, but he would have none of me." The bitterness I felt over my rebuff must have been in my voice and face, for Gervais spoke abruptly: "And do you hate him for that?" "Nay," said I, churlishly enough. "It is his to do as he chooses. But I hate the Comte de Mar for striking me a foul blow." "The Comte de Mar!" exclaimed Yeux-gris. "His son." "He has no son." "But he has, monsieur. The Comte de--" "He is dead," said Yeux-gris. "Why, we knew naught--" I was beginning, when Gervais broke in: "You say the fellow's honest, when he tells such tales as this! He saw the Comte de Mar--!" "I thought it must be he," I protested. "A young man who sat by Monsieur's side, elegant and proud-looking, with an aquiline face--" "That is Lucas, that is his secretary," declared Yeux-gris, as who should say, "That is his scullion." Gervais looked at him oddly a moment, then shrugged his shoulders and demanded of me: "What next?" "I came away angry." "And walked all the way here to risk your life in a haunted house? Pardieu! too plain a lie." "Oh, I would have done the like; we none of us fear ghosts in the daytime," said Yeux-gris. "You may believe him; I am no such fool. He has been caught in two lies; first the Béthunes, then the Comte de Mar. He is a clumsy spy; they might have found a better one. Not but what that touch about ill-treatment at Monsieur's hand was well thought of. That was Monsieur's suggestion, I warrant, for the boy has talked like a dolt else." "I am no liar," I cried hotly. "Ask Jacques whether he did not tell me about the Béthunes. It is his lie, not mine. I did not know the Comte de Mar was dead, and this Lucas of yours is handsome enough for a count. I came here, as I told you, in curiosity concerning Maître Jacques's story. I had no idea of seeing you or any living man. It is the truth, monsieur." "I believe you," Yeux-gris answered. "You have an honest face. You came into my house uninvited. Well, I forgive it, and invite you to stay. You shall be my valet." "He shall be nobody's valet," Gervais cried. The gray eyes flashed, but their owner rejoined lightly: "You have a man; surely I should have one, too. And I understand the services of M. Félix are not engaged." "Mille tonnerres! you would take this spy--this sneak--" "As I would take M. de Paris, if I chose," responded Yeux-gris, with a cold hauteur that smacked more of a court than of this shabby room. He added lightly again: "You think him a spy, I do not. But in any case, he must not blab of us. Therefore he stays here and brushes my clothes. Marry, they need it."