Orrain | Page 6

I smiled to myself; but Pierrebon now entered with a ewer and the things I required. He placed these on the table, and at a look from me, which he understood, vanished again.
I set myself at once to dress the wound, which was, after all, but a slight affair, though it had bled freely. I said so as I finished, adding that if it had been a trifle deeper the business would have been serious; but, as it was, a couple of days would mend matters entirely, except for a patch.
"Not Frenel himself could have tended me better," said the wounded man. "Monsieur, I am deeply obliged to you."
And Pierrebon entering at this time with some wine I begged them to do me the honour to drink a cup.
This they willingly assented to, and filling three cups from the flagon I raised mine on high.
"Messieurs, a toast for all good Christians! Down with the crescent!"
They understood and drank--Le Brusquet with a searching look in his eyes and a smile on his lips, and his companion with a reckless laugh.
And now they rose. "Monsieur," said the wounded man, "will you add to your kindness by telling us to whom we are indebted? You are a soldier--I can see that--and I can keep that sword of yours from rusting if you will."
So he had not recognised me! Well, ten years make a difference! And yet, if once, he had seen me a hundred times in the days when his valiant brother Enghien lived. I began to feel sure that if he did not know me I was safe indeed; but I had no mind to change my present peace for any other life, and so made answer:
"Monseigneur, it were idle for me to say that I do not know you. Rest assured that were I so minded I could follow no braver or more generous prince than Antony of Vend?me, but my sword is hung to the wall. My name is Broussel. I am bourgeois, as you see, and having a small estate of fifty ��cus have all that suffices for the simple needs of a citizen such as I. Monseigneur, the little service I rendered is small; let it be forgotten. Nevertheless, I thank you for the kind offer you have made."
I delivered this speech with a respectful air, but yet in a tone that carried the conviction that my resolve was unchangeable.
"As you will," said the Duke, with some coldness of manner. "A Bourbon does not offer twice. And so, farewell! I fear 'tis a long road and an ugly road we have yet to travel, thanks to my folly--eh, Le Brusquet?"
Out of the tail of my eye I had been watching Le Brusquet. All this time he had been engaged in examining the silver cup from which he had drunk his wine--a relic of my past splendour. He toyed with it this way and that, looking at the arms engraved thereon, and comparing them with those on the flagon. Then his little eyes stole a swift, searching glance at me, and a smile--just the shadow of a smile--flickered over his lips. He had not, however, lost a word of what was passing between Vend?me and myself, and on the Duke addressing him he put down the cup he held in his hand, saying quietly: "If Monsieur Broussel will add to his kindness by lending me a sword it may, perhaps, be better for us, and I promise faithfully to return it."
Without a word I took a sword from the wall and handed it to Le Brusquet, who received it with a bow, and then, turning to the Duke, I offered to accompany them to the end of the street, which was an evil place even by day. I added that a little beyond the end of the street was the Gloriette, where the guards of Monsieur the Lieutenant of the Chatelet were to be found, and that thence their way would be safe.
The Duke pulled a long face, apparently at the thought of having to disclose his identity to the guards of the Chatelet, but Le Brusquet cut in with a "Let it be so, Monseigneur. Three are better than two, except in love-making."
At this the Duke laughed, and agreed, and we all three went out into the street, which twisted and wound its crooked way towards the river face between two rows of overhanging houses, that seemed as if they were ever threatening to fall over and bury it in their ruins.
For a little we walked without a word; for Antony of Vend?me--fickle and vain, at once the hope and despair of his time--felt himself hurt and aggrieved by the refusal of his offer, and for a space preserved a sulky silence. Ere we had gone a quarter