“Etienne!”

I sprang forward with the impulse to throw my arms about him, in the pure rapture of recognizing his voice.  This struggler, whom we had rushed in, blindfold, to save, was Monsieur!  If we had been content to mind our own business, had sheered away like the deputy—­it turned me faint to think how long we had delayed with old Marceau, we were so nearly too late.  I wanted to seize Monsieur, to convince myself that he was all safe, to feel him quick and warm.

I made one pace and stopped; for I remembered what ghastly shape stood between me and Monsieur—­that horrible lying story.

“Dieu!” gasped M. Etienne, “Monsieur!”

For a moment we all kept silence, motionless; then Monsieur flung his sword over the wall.

“Do your will, Etienne.”

His son darted forward with a cry.

“Monsieur, Monsieur, I am not your assassin!  I came to your aid not dreaming who you were; but, had I known, I would have fought a hundred times the harder.  I never plotted against you.  On the honour of a St. Quentin I swear it.”

Monsieur said naught, and we could not see his face; could not know whether he believed or rejected, softened or condemned.

M. Etienne, catching at his breath, went on: 

“Monsieur, I know it is hard to credit.  I have been a bad son to you, unloving, rebellious, insolent.  We quarrelled; I spoke bitter words.  But I am no ruffian.  I am a St. Quentin.  Had you had me whipped from the house, still would I never have raised hand against you.  I knew nothing of the plot.  Felix told you I was in it—­small blame to him.  But he was wrong.  I knew naught of it.”

Had he been content to rest his case here, I think Monsieur could not but have believed his innocence on his bare word.  The stones in the pavement must have known that he was uttering truth.  But he in his eagerness paused for no answer, but went on to stun Monsieur with statements new and amazing to his ear.

“My cousin Grammont—­who is dead—­was in the plot, and his lackey Pontou, and Martin the clerk; but the contriver was Lucas.”

“Lucas?”

“Lucas,” continued M. Etienne.  “Or, to give him his true title, Paul de Lorraine, son of Henri de Guise.”

“But that is impossible” Monsieur cried, stupefied.

“It is impossible, but it is true.  He is a Lorraine—­Mayenne’s nephew, and for years Mayenne’s spy.  He came to you to kill you—­for that object pure and simple.  Last spring, before he came to you, he was here in Paris with Mayenne, making terms for your murder.  He is no Huguenot, no Kingsman.  He is Mayenne’s henchman, son to Guise himself.”

“And how long have you known this?” asked Monsieur.

“Since this morning.”  Then, as the import of the question struck him, he fell back with a groan.  “Ah, Monsieur, if you can ask that, I have no more to say.  It is useless.”  He turned away into the darkness.