"By St. Quentin, shall we! You and I, Félix, you and I alone will overturn the whole League! We will show them what we are made of. They think lightly of me. Why not? I never took part with my father. I lazed about in these gay Paris houses, bent on my pleasure, too shallow a fop even to take sides in the fight for a kingdom. What should they see in me but an empty-headed roisterer, frittering away his life in follies? But they will find I am something more. Well, enter there!" He dropped back among the pillows, striving to look careless, as Maître Menard, the landlord, opened the door and stood shuffling on the threshold. "Does M. le Comte sleep?" he asked me deferentially, though I think he could not but have heard M. Étienne's tirading half-way down the passage. "Not yet," I answered. "What is it?" "Why, a man came with a billet for M. le Comte and insisted it be sent in. I told him Monsieur was not to be disturbed; he had been wounded and was sleeping; I said it was not sense to wake him for a letter that would keep till morning. But he would have it 'twas of instant import, and so--" "Oh, he is not asleep," I declared, eagerly ushering the maître in, my mind leaping to the conclusion, for no reason save my ardent wish, that Vigo had discovered our whereabouts. "I dared not deny him further," added Maître Menard. "He wore the liveries of M. de Mayenne." "Of Mayenne," I echoed, thinking of what M. Étienne had said. "Pardieu, it may be Lucas himself!" And snatching up my master's sword I dashed out of the door and was in the cabaret in three steps. The room contained some score of men, but I, peering about by the uncertain candle-light, could find no one who in any wise resembled Lucas. A young gamester seated near the door, whom my sudden entrance had jostled, rose, demanding in the name of his outraged dignity to cross swords with me. On any other day I had deemed it impossible to say him nay, but now with a real vengeance, a quarrel à outrance on my hands, he seemed of no consequence at all. I brushed him aside as I demanded M. de Mayenne's man. They said he was gone. I ran out into the dark court and the darker street. A tapster, lounging in the courtyard, had seen my man pass out, and he opined with much reason that I should not catch him. Yet I ran a hundred yards up street and a hundred yards down street, shouting on the name of Lucas, calling him coward and skulker, bidding him come forth and fight me. The whole neighbourhood became aware than I wanted one Lucas to fight: lights twinkled in windows; men, women, and children poured out of doors. But Lucas, if it were he, had for the second time vanished soft-footed into the night. I returned with drooping tail to M. Étienne. He was alone, sitting up in bed awaiting me, his cheeks scarlet, his eyes blazing. "He is gone," I panted. "I looked everywhere, but he was gone. Oh, if I caught Lucas--"