querulously, scratching his head; half sullen, half cowed, a
country servant all over.

"And there is not!" cried the foremost of the gang about the
door, hastening to confront us in turn. His tone was insolent,
and it needed but half an eye to see that his fellows were
inclined to back him up. He stuck his arms akimbo and faced us
with an impudent smile. A lanthorn on the ground beside him
throwing an uncertain light on the group, I saw that they all
wore the same badge.

"Come," I said sternly, "the stables are large, and your horses
cannot fill them. Some room must be found for mine."

"To be sure! Make way for the king!" he retorted. While one
jeered "VIVE LE ROI!" and the rest laughed. Not good-
humouredly, but with a touch of spitefulness.

Quarrels between gentlemen's servants were as common then as they
are to-day. But the masters seldom condescended to interfere.
"Let the fellows fight it out," was the general sentiment. Here,
however, poor Jean was over-matched, and we had no choice but to
see to it ourselves.

"Come, men, have a care that you do not get into trouble," I
urged, restraining Croisette by a touch, for I by no means wished
to have a repetition of the catastrophe which had happened at
Caylus. "These horses belong to the Vicomte de Caylus. If your
master be a friend of his, as may very probably be the case, you
will run the risk of getting into trouble."