"There is a gentleman here," answered the host, "but I am ignorant of his
name. I will inquire."
"You may spare yourself the trouble," Michelot interposed. "That is not
the gentleman's name. I am his servant."
There was a moment's pause, then came Vilmorin's shrill voice.
"You lie, knave! M. de Mancini is here. You are M. de Luynes's lackey,
and where the one is, there shall we find the other."
"M. de Luynes?" came a voice unknown to me. "That is Mancini's sword-blade
of a friend, is it not? Well, why does he hide himself? Where is he?
Where is your master, rascal?"
"I am here, Messieurs," I answered, throwing wide the door, and appearing,
grim and arrogant, upon the threshold.
Mort de ma vie! Had they beheld the Devil, St. Auban and Vilmorin could
not have looked less pleased than they did when their eyes lighted upon me,
standing there surveying them with a sardonic grin.
St. Auban muttered an oath, Vilmorin stifled a cry, whilst he who had so
loudly called to know where I hid myself--a frail little fellow, in the
uniform of the gardes du corps--now stood silent and abashed.
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