“I approve you so much, St. Quentin, that I cannot composedly see you putting your head into the lion’s jaws.”

“My head is used to the pillow.  Do the teeth close, I am no worse off than my son.”

“Your death makes your son’s no easier.”

“Why, what else to do, Rosny?” Monsieur exclaimed.  “Mishandle the lady?  Storm Paris?  Sell the Cause?”

“I would we could storm Paris,” Rosny sighed.  “It would suit me better to seize the prisoner than to sue for him.  But Paris is not ripe for us yet.  You know my plan—­to send to Villeroi.  I believe he could manage this thing.”

“I am second to none,” Monsieur said politely, “in my admiration of M. de Villeroi’s abilities.  But to reach him is uncertain; what he can or will do, uncertain.  Etienne de Mar is not Villeroi’s son; he is mine.”

“Aye, it is your business,” Rosny assented.  “It is yours to take your way.”

“A mad way, but mine.  But come, now, Rosny, you must admit that once or twice, when all your wiseacres were deadlocked, my madness has served.”

Rosny took Monsieur’s hand in a silent grip.

“Maximilien,” the duke said, smiling down on him, “what a pity you are a scamp of a heretic!”

“Henri,” Rosny returned gravely, “I would you had had the good fortune to be born in the Religion.”

Again he wished us God-speed, and we gathered up our reins.  As we turned the corner I glanced back to find him still standing as we had left him, gazing soberly after us.

The man who was going into the lion’s den was far less solemn over it.  By fits and starts, as he thought on his son’s great danger, he contrived a gloomy countenance:  but Monsieur had ridden all his life with Hope on the pillion; she did not desert him now.  As we cantered steadily along in the fresh, cool morning, he already pictured M. Etienne released.  However mad he acknowledged his errand to be, I think he was scarce visited by a doubt of its success.  It was impossible to him that his son should not be saved.

We entered with perfect ease the gate of Paris, and took our way without hesitancy through the busiest streets.  Nowhere did the guard spring on us, but, instead, more than once, the passers-by gathered in knots, the tradesmen and artisans ran out of their shops to cheer St. Quentin, to cheer France, to cheer peace, to cheer to the echo the Catholic king.

“I hope Mayenne hears them,” Monsieur said to me, doffing his hat to a big farrier who had come out of his smithy waving impudently in the eye of all the world the white flag of the king.

We kept a brisk pace alike where they cheered us and where, in other streets, they scowled and hooted at us, so that I looked out for men with pistols in second-story windows.  But, friend or foe, none stopped us till at length we drew rein before the grilles of the Hotel de Lorraine.