"Where are you going?" asked Ranulph.

"Home," answered the old man gloomily.

Ranulph stopped. "All right; better not come out again to-day."

"You're not going to let that Frenchman hurt me?" suddenly asked
Delagarde with morose anxiety. "You're going to stop that? They'd put
me in prison."

Ranulph stooped over his father, his eyes alive with anger, his face
blurred with disgust.

"Go home," said he, "and never mention this again while you live, or I'll
take you to prison myself." Ranulph watched his father disappear down
the Rue d'Egypte, then he retraced his steps to the Vier Marchi. With a
new-formed determination he quickened his walk, ruling his face to a sort
of forced gaiety, lest any one should think his moodiness strange. One
person after another accosted him. He listened eagerly, to see if
anything were said which might show suspicion of his father. But the
gossip was all in old Delagarde's favour. From group to group he went,
answering greetings cheerily and steeling himself to the whole disgusting
business.

Presently he saw the Chevalier du Champsavoys with the Sieur de Mauprat.
This was the first public appearance of the chevalier since the sad
business at the Vier Prison a fortnight before. The simple folk had
forgotten their insane treatment of him then, and they saluted him now
with a chirping: "Es-tu biaou, chevalier?" and "Es-tu gentiment,