At the time I answered nothing, but next morning as we sat at breakfast, our host serving us, I asked, as if for gossip's sake, if he knew of such a place as Morsigny? "The château, I suppose you mean, Monsieur?" he replied, playing up to my lead while he busied himself doing nothing with apparent zeal. "It is about three leagues to the south, and so not far from the hills. But you will not find the Count at home." "Oh, the Count is not at home," I repeated vaguely, my information being of the weakest. I had not even remembered there was a Count. "No, Excellency; he is with the court at Pamplona, though not altogether for love." "Who, then, is at Morsigny?" "Only the little Count and a small household. The life they live is of the quietest; few pass their way, and if you have news from Paris, or even from Bordeaux, Monsieur, you will be sure of a welcome." "What?" said I doubtfully. The possible solution of an evident difficulty did not seem a good one. "A stranger? Hardly welcome, I think." "That's just it, Monsieur, because you are a stranger, or no more than two. Were you fifty you would find the door shut so fast that fifty would not open it. Nor would you get a welcome if you came from Tours. We of the Little Kingdom do not love Louis. Jean Volran says it." "Bold words," said Martin grimly. "But, my friend, here's advice to you: if you meet a certain Messire Tristan, keep your dislikes to yourself, for assuredly Jean Volran would never say it a second time." "Bah!" replied he, shrugging his shoulders as he turned away. "I'm not afraid of your precious Messire Tristan." No more passed, but as we rode on the way I had leisure to admire the skill with which His Majesty chose even the humblest of his tools. In three sentences Jean Volran had informed us of the position at Morsigny, had shown us a possible cause of welcome, and hinted a warning we would be fools to disregard. It was curious, but it was not the seizing of the child that troubled my conscience, but the stealing through a friendly door under cover of a lie. But as I cast about how I might shift a downright lie to a seeming truth, and so cheat the devil in the dark, Martin could stand his uncertainty no longer, and so, for the tenth time since we had left Plessis, spurred Ninus up alongside of Roland that he might ease his curiosity. "Are we at our journey's end, Monsieur Gaspard?" "Nearly," answered I, finding safety in brevity. "And what do we do next?" "The King's business." "Then it's turn about," said he, "for the King nearly did mine in Tours. But what is the King's business to us?" "The restoration of the Hellewyl lands, the building of Solignac, and Jan Meert's life. Will that content you?" But to my surprise, so far from showing the lively satisfaction I looked for, or even astonishment, his face grew grave.