“Yes! the unknown lady—­the relation of M. du Bouchage.”

“Good; I see that the faro of Brussels and the beer of Louvain have not clouded your intellects.”

“Oh! no, monseigneur, I am more ingenious than ever.”

“Then call up all your imagination, and guess.”

“Well!  I guess that your highness is envious.”

“Ah! parbleu, I always am; but what is it about just now?”

“You wish to know who is the brave creature who has followed the mm. de
Joyeuse through fire and water?”

“You have just hit it, ‘per mille pericula Martis!’ as Margot would say. 
Apropos, have you written to her, Aurilly?”

“To whom, monseigneur?”

“To my sister Margot.”

“Had I to write to her?”

“Certainly.”

“About what?”

“To tell her that we are beaten—­ruined, and that she must look out for herself; for that Spain, disembarrassed of me in the north, will fall on her in the south.”

“Ah! true.”

“You have not written?”

“No, monseigneur.”

“You slept?”

“Yes, I confess it; but even if I had thought of it, with what could I have written?  I have here neither pen, paper, nor ink.”

“Well, seek.  ‘Quare et invenies,’ as it is written.”

“How in the devil’s name am I to find it in the hut of a peasant, who probably did not know how to write?”

“Seek, stupid! if you do not find that, you will find—­”

“What?”

“Something else.”

“Oh! fool that I was,” cried Aurilly.  “Your highness is right:  I am stupid; but I am very sleepy, you see.”

“Well, keep awake for a little while, and, since you have not written, I will write; only go and seek what is necessary.  Go, Aurilly, and do not come back till you have found it; I will remain here.”

“I go, monseigneur.”

“And if, in your researches, you discover that the house is picturesque—­you know how I admire Flemish interiors, Aurilly.”

“Yes, monseigneur.”

“Well! call me.”

“Immediately, monseigneur; be easy.”

Aurilly rose, and, with a step light as a bird, went up the staircase.  In five minutes he returned to his master.

“Well?” asked he.

“Well, monseigneur, if I may believe appearances, the house is devilishly picturesque.”

“How so?”

“Peste! monseigneur; because one cannot get in to look.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that it is guarded by a dragon.”

“What foolish joke is this?”

“Oh! monseigneur, it is unluckily not a foolish joke, but a sad truth.  The treasure is on the first floor, in a room in which I can see light through the door.”

“Well?”

“Well! before this door lies a man, wrapped in a gray cloak.”

“Oh, oh!  M. du Bouchage puts a gendarme at the door of his mistress.”