“You found you needed me.”

“You are twice wrong, Paul.  For I knew nothing of your arrest.  Nor do I think I need you.  Pardieu! you succeed too badly to give me confidence.”

Lucas stood glowering, gnawing his lip, picturing the chagrin, the angry reproaches, the justifications he did not utter.  I am certain he pitied himself as the sport of fate and of tyrants, the most shamefully used of mortal men.  And so long as he aspired to the hand of Mayenne’s ward, so long was he helpless under Mayenne’s will.

“’Twas pity,” Mayenne said reflectively, “that you thought best to be absent last night.  Had you been here, you had had sport.  Your young friend Mar came to sing under his lady’s window.”

“Saw she him?” Lucas cried sharply.

“How should I know?  She does not confide in me.”

“You took care to find out!” Lucas cried, knowing he was being badgered, yet powerless to keep himself from writhing.

“I may have.”

“Did she see him?” Lucas demanded again, the heavy lines of hatred and jealousy searing his face.

“No credit to you if she did not.  You accomplish singularly little to harass M. de Mar in his love-making.  You deserve that she should have seen him.  But, as a matter of fact, she did not.  She was in the chapel with madame.”

“What happened?”

“Francois de Brie—­now there is a youngster, Paul,” Mayenne interrupted himself to point out, “who has not a tithe of your cleverness; but he has the advantage of being on the spot when needed.  Desiring a word with mademoiselle, he betook himself to her chamber.  She was not there, but Mar was warbling under the window.”

“Brie?”

“Brie bestirred himself.  He sent two of the guard round behind the house to cut off the retreat, while he and Latour attacked from the front.”

“Mar’s killed?” Lucas cried.  “He’s killed!”

“By no means,” answered Mayenne.  “He got away.”

Before he could explain further,—­if he meant to,—­the door opened, and Mlle. de Montluc came in.

Her eyes travelled first to us, in anxiety; then with relief to Mayenne, sitting over the jewels; last, to Lucas, with startlement.  She advanced without hesitation to the duke.

“I am come, monsieur, to fetch you to supper.”

“Pardieu, Lorance!” Mayenne exclaimed, “you show me a different face from that of dinner-time.”  Indeed, so she did, for her eyes were shining with excitement, while the colour that M. Etienne had kissed into them still flushed her cheeks.

“If I do,” she made quick answer, “it is because, the more I think on it, the surer I grow that my loving cousin will not break my heart.”

“I want a word with you, Lorance,” Mayenne said quietly.

“As many as you like, monsieur,” she replied promptly.  “But will you not send these creatures from the room first?”

“Do you include your cousin Paul in that term?”