He cursed him waking, cursed him sleeping; cursed him eating, cursed him
drinking; cursed him walking, riding, sitting; cursed him summer, cursed
him winter; cursed him young, cursed him old; living, dying, and dead. I
inferred that the packet had not been recovered.
"No, pardieu! Vigo went straight on horseback to the Bonne Femme, but
Peyrot had vanished. So he galloped round to the Rue Tournelles, whither
he had sent two of our men before him, but the bird was flown. He had
been home half an hour before,--he left the inn just after us,--had
paid his arrears of rent, surrendered his key, and taken away his chest,
with all his worldly goods in it, on the shoulders of two porters, bound
for parts unknown. Gilles is scouring Paris for him. Mordieu, I wish him
luck!"
His face betokened little hope of Gilles. We both kept chagrined
silence.
"And we thought him sleeping!" presently cried he.
"Well," he added, rising, "that milk's spilt; no use crying over it.
Plan a better venture; that's the only course. Monsieur is gone back to
St. Denis to report to the king. Marry, he makes as little of these
gates as if he were a tennis-ball and they the net. Time was when he
thought he must plan and prepare, and know the captain of the watch, and
go masked at midnight. He has got bravely over that now; he bounces in
and out as easily as kiss my hand.
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