“Monsieur’s eyes are grey,” the lackey observed slyly.

“Rascal, you are asking a question!”

“No, Monsieur, I was simply stating a fact.  Plutarch says . . .”

“Plutarch?  What next?” in astonishment.

“I have just bought a copy of Amyot’s translation with the money you gave me.  Plutarch is fine, Monsieur.”

“What shall a gentleman do when his lackey starts to quote Plutarch?” with mock helplessness.  “Well, lad, read Plutarch and profit.  But keep your grimy hands off my Rabelais, or I’ll trounce you.”

Breton flushed guiltily.  If there was one thing he enjoyed more than another it was the adventures of the worthy Pantagruel and his resourceful esquire; but he had never been able to complete this record of extravagant exploits, partly because he could not read fast enough and partly because his master kept finding new hiding places for it.

“A messenger from De Guitaut,” he said, “called this morning for you.”

“For me?  That is strange.  The captain knew that I could not arrive before to-night, which is the twentieth.”

“I told the officer that.  He laughed curiously and said that he expected to find you absent.”

“What the devil did he call for, then?”

Breton made a grimace which explained his inability to answer this question.

The Chevalier stood still and twisted his mustache till the ends were like needle-points.  “Horns of Panurge! as Victor would say; is it possible for any man save Homer to be in two places at once?  Possibly I am to race for some other end of France.  I like it not.  Mazarin thinks because I am in her Majesty’s Guards that I belong to him.  Plague take him, I say.”

He snapped the buckles on his shoes, while Breton drew from its worn scabbard the Chevalier’s campaign rapier, long and flexile, dreaded by many and respected by all, and thrust it into the new scabbard,

“Ah, Monsieur,” said Breton, stirred by that philosophy which, one gathers from a first reading of Plutarch, “a man is a deal like a sword.  If he be good and true, it matters not into what kind of scabbard he is thrust.”

“Aye, lad; but how much more confidence a handsome scabbard gives a man!  Even a sword, dressed well, attracts the eye; and, heart of mine, what other aim have we poor mortals than to attract?”

“Madame Boisjoli makes out her charges at twelve louis, including the keep of the horses.”

“That is reasonable, considering my absence.  Mignon is an excellent woman.”

“The Vicomte d’Halluys did not come as he promised with the eight hundred pistoles he lost to you at vingt-et-un.”

“Ah!” The Chevalier studied the pattern in the rug.  “Eh, well, since I had no pistoles, I have lost none.  I was deep in wine, and so was he; doubtless he has forgotten.  The sight of me will recall his delinquency.”

“That is all of the debts and credits, Monsieur.”