from his mistress more than I from Monsieur. The journey to Paris had
been a journey to Paradise. And now, this!

Monsieur had looked me in the face and not smiled; had heard me beseech
him and not answered--not lifted a finger to save me from being mangled
under his very eyes. St. Quentin and Paris were two very different
places, it appeared. At St. Quentin Monsieur had been pleased to take
me into the château and treat me to more intimacy than he accorded to
the high-born lads, his other pages. So much the easier, then, to cast
me off when he had tired of me. My heart seethed with rage and
bitterness against Monsieur, against the sentry, and, more than all,
against the young Comte de Mar, who had flung me under the wheels.

I had never before seen the Comte de Mar, that spoiled only son of M. le
Duc's, who was too fine for the country, too gay to share his father's
exile. Maybe I was jealous of the love his father bore him, which he so
little repaid. I had never thought to like him, St. Quentin though he
were; and now that I saw him I hated him. His handsome face looked ugly
enough to me as he struck me that blow.

I went along the Paris streets blindly, the din of my own thoughts
louder than all the noises of the city. But I could not remain in this
trance forever, and at length I woke to two unpleasant facts: first, I
had no idea where I was, and, second, I should be no better off if I
knew.

Never, while there remained in me the spirit of a man, would I go back
to Monsieur; never would I serve the Comte de Mar. And it was equally
obvious that never, so long as my father retained the spirit that was
his, could I return to St. Quentin with the account of my morning's