At this moment the sound of a flourish of trumpets which seemed to come from Satory wood was heard in the distance and lost itself in the echoes. The chevalier let his sword slip into its scabbard, and, not heeding the quarrel that had begun:

‘Eh, by Jove,’ he cried, ‘that’s the king setting out for the hunt. Why didn’t you tell me that at once?’

‘That is not my business, now yours.’

‘Listen, my dear man. The king isn’t there. I have no letter: I have no audience. Here is something to get a drink, let me in.’

He drew from his pocket some gold pieces. The Swiss looked him up and down again with sovereign contempt.

‘What’s that?’ he said disdainfully. ‘Are you trying to get in that way to a royal dwelling? Instead of making you go away, take care I don’t shut you up.’

‘You, twice scoundrel that you are!’ said the chevalier, getting angry again and seizing his sword again.

‘Yes, me!’ repeated the fat man.

But during this conversation, in which the historian is sorry to have compromised his hero, thick clouds had obscured the sky: a thunderstorm was coming. There was a quick flash of lightning, followed by a violent clap of thunder, and the rain began to fall heavily. The chevalier, who was still holding his gold pieces, saw a drop of water on his dusty shoe, as big as a small crown piece.

‘Bother,’ he said, ‘let’s take shelter. It’s no good letting ourselves get wet.’

And he made his way nimbly to Cerberus’s cave, or if you like, the caretaker’s house. Then, flinging himself carelessly in the big chair of the caretaker himself:

‘Jove, what a nuisance you are!’ he said, ‘and what an unlucky fellow I am! You take me for a conspirator, and you don’t understand that I have in my pocket a petition for his majesty! I am a provincial, but you are only a fool.’

The Swiss for all answer, went to a corner to get his halberd, and stood erect, the weapon in his hand.

‘When will you go away?’ he cried in a stentorian voice.

The quarrel, alternately forgotten and recommenced, seemed this time to be becoming quite serious, and already the two fat hands of the Swiss were trembling oddly on his pike.

What was going to happen? I do not know, when, turning his head suddenly:

‘Ah,’ said the chevalier, ‘who’s coming here?’

A young page, mounted on a superb horse (not an English one: in those days thin legs were not the fashion), was riding up at full speed and at a triple gallop. The path was soaked by the rain: the gate was only the half open. There was some hesitation. The page used his spur: the horse, checked a moment, tried to get into his stride again, missed his footing, slid on the wet earth, and fell.

It is not at all pleasant, indeed almost dangerous, to raise a horse that has fallen. There is no whip that will hold him, the movements of the legs of the beast, who is doing all it can, are extremely disagreeable, above all when the man has himself a leg caught under the saddle.