M. le Comte were dead we should hear
of it. Oh, certainly, we should hear."

"But where is he, then? You say he is lost."

"Aye. He has not been seen or heard of since the day they had the
quarrel."

"Who quarrelled?"

"Why, he and Monsieur," answered Marcel, in a lower voice, pointing to
the door of the inner room. "M. le Comte has been his own master too
long to take kindly to a hand over him; that is the whole of it. He has
a quick temper. So has Monsieur."

But I thought of Monsieur's wonderful patience, and I cried:

"Shame!"

"What now?"

"To speak like that of Monsieur."

"Enfin, it is true. He is none the worse for that. But I suppose if
Monsieur had a cloven hoof one must not mention it."

"One would get his head broken."

"Oh, you Broux!" he cried out. "I have not seen you for half a year. I
had forgotten that with you the St. Quentins rank with the saints."

"You--you are a hired servant. You come to Monsieur as you might come to
anybody. With the Broux it is different," I retorted angrily. Yet I
could not but know in my heart that any hired servant might have served
Monsieur better than I. My boasted loyalty--what was it but lip-service?
I said more humbly: "Pshaw! it is no great matter. Tell me about the
quarrel."

"And so I will, if you're civil. In the first place, there was the
question of M. le Comte's marriage."

"What! is he married?"

"Oh, by no means. Monsieur wouldn't have it. You see, Felix," Marcel
said in a tone deep with importance, "we're Navarre's men now."

"Of course," said I.

"I suppose you would say 'of course' just like that to Mayenne himself.
You greenhorn! It is as much as our lives are worth to side openly with
Navarre. The League may attack us any day."

"I know," I said uneasily. Every chance word Marcel spoke seemed to dye
my guilt the deeper. "But what has this to do with M. le Comte's
marriage?" I asked him.

"Why, he was more than half a Leaguer. Perhaps he is one now. Some say
he and Monsieur were at daggers drawn about politics; but I warrant it
was about Mlle. de Montluc. They call her the Rose of Lorraine. She's
the Duke of Mayenne's own cousin and housemate. And we're king's men, so
of course it was no match for Monsieur's son. They say Mayenne himself
favoured the marriage, but our duke wouldn't hear of it. However, the
backbone of the trouble was M. de Grammont."

"And who may he be?"

"He's a cousin of the house. He and M. le Comte are as