u go to Vincennes?"

"On Saturday."

"That is enough, sire." D'Epernon bowed and withdrew.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

TWO FRIENDS.

We will now follow the two young men sent by the king. Scarcely on
horseback, Ernanton and St. Maline, determined that one should not get
before the other, nearly crushed each other in the gateway. The face of
St. Maline became purple, and that of Ernanton pale.

"You hurt me, monsieur," cried the former; "do you wish to crush me?"

"You also hurt me, only I did not complain."

"You wish to give me a lesson, I believe?"

"I wish to give you nothing."

"Ah!" cried St. Maline, "pray repeat that."

"You are seeking a quarrel, are you not?" replied Ernanton, quietly; "so
much the worse for you."

"And why should I wish to quarrel? I do not know you," replied St.
Maline, disdainfully.

"You know me perfectly, monsieur, because at home my house is but two
leagues from yours, and I am well known there, being of an old family;
but you are furious at seeing me in Paris, when you thought that you
alone were sent for; also, because the king gave me the letter to
carry."

"Well," said St. Maline, "it may be true, but there is one result."

"What is it?"

"That I do not like to be near you."

"Go away, then; pardieu, I do not want to keep you. On the contrary, I
understand perfectly; you would like to take the letter from me and
carry it yourself; but unfortunately you must kill me first."

"And who tells you that I do not wish to do that?"

"To desire and to do are two different things."

"Descend with me to the banks of the water, and you will see that with
me they are the same."

"My dear monsieur, when the king gives me a letter to carry, I carry
it."

"I will tear it from you by force."

"You will not force me, I hope, to shoot you like a dog."

"You!"

"Yes; I have a pistol, and you have not."

"You shall pay for this."

"I trust so, after my commission is over; but, meanwhile, I beg you to
observe that as we belong to the king, it is setting a bad example to
quarrel."

St. Maline was furious, he bit his fingers with rage. As they crossed
the Rue St. Antoine, Ernanton saw a litter with a lady in it. "My page!"
cried he, and he rode toward it; but she did not seem to recognize him,
and passed on.

The young men now rode on without speaking. St. Maline soon discovered,
to his chagrin, that his horse was not as good as Ernanton's, and could
hardly keep pace wit