“Then you are the traitor, Lorance,” chimed the silvery tones of Mme. de Montpensier.  “It is not denied that M. de Mar has gone over to the enemy; therefore are you the traitor to have intercourse with him.”

She spoke without heat, without any appearance of ill feeling.  Hers was merely the desire, for the fun of it, to keep the flurry going.  But mademoiselle answered seriously, with the fleetingest glance at M. le Comte, where he, forgetting he knew no French, feasted his eyes recklessly on her, pitying, applauding, adoring her.  I went softly around the group to pull his sleeve; we were lost if any turned to see him.

“Madame,” mademoiselle addressed her cousin of Montpensier, speaking particularly clearly and distinctly, “I mean ever to be loyal to my house.  I came here a penniless orphan to the care of my kinsman Mayenne; and he has always been to me generous and loving—­”

“If not madame,” murmured Mile.  Blanche to herself.

“—­as I in my turn have been loving and obedient.  It was only two nights ago he told me M. de Mar must be as dead to me.  Since then I have held no intercourse with him.  Last night he came under my window; I was not in my chamber, as you know.  I knew naught of the affair till M. de Brie was brought in bleeding.  It was not by my will M. de Mar came here—­it was a misery to me.  I sent him word by his boy that other night to leave Paris; I implored him to leave Paris.  If, instead, he comes here, he racks my heart.  It is no joy to me, no triumph to me, but a bitter distress, that any honest gentleman should risk his life in a vain and empty quest.  M. de Mar must go his ways, as I must go mine.  Should he ever make attempt to reach me again, and could I speak to him, I should tell him just what I have said now to you.”

I pressed monsieur’s hand in the endeavour to bring him back to sense; he seemed about to cry out on her.  But mademoiselle’s earnestness had drawn all eyes.

“Pshaw, Lorance! banish these tragedy airs!” Mme. de Montpensier rejoined, her lightness little touched.  A wounded bird falls by the rippling water, but the ripples tinkle on.  “M. de Mar is not likely ever to venture here again; he had too warm a welcome last night.  My faith, he may be dead by this time—­dead to all as well as to you.  After he vanished into Ferou’s house, no one seems to know what happened.  Has Charles told you, my sister?”

“Ferou gave him up, of course,” Mme. de Mayenne answered.  “Monsieur has done what seemed to him proper.”

“You are darkly mysterious, sister.”

Mme. de Mayenne raised her eyebrows and smiled, as one solemnly pledged to say no more.  She could not, indeed, say more, knowing nothing whatever about it.  Our mademoiselle spoke in a low voice, looking straight before her: 

“If Heaven willed that he escaped last night, I pray he may leave the city.  I pray he may never try to see me more.  I pray he may depart instantly—­at once.”