“You are a good child, Lorance,” he said.  “I could wish your lover as docile.”

“He will not come here again,” she cried.  “He knows I am not for him.  He gives it up, monsieur—­he takes himself out of Paris.  I promise you it is over.  He gives me up.”

“I have not his promise for that,” Mayenne said dryly; “but the next time he comes after you, he may settle with your husband.”

She uttered a little gasp, but scarce of surprise—­almost of relief that the blow, so long expected, had at last been dealt.

“You will marry me, monsieur?” she murmured.  “To M. de Brie?”

“You are shrewd, mademoiselle.  You know that it will be a good three months before Francois de Brie can stand up to be wed.  You say to yourself that much may happen in three months.  So it may.  Therefore will your bridegroom be at hand to-morrow morning.”

She made no rejoinder, but her eyes, wide like a hunted animal’s, moved fearsomely, loathingly, to Lucas.  Mayenne uttered an abrupt laugh.

“No; Paul is not the happy man.  Besides bungling the St. Quentin affair, he has seen fit to make free with my name in an enterprise of his own.  Therefore, Paul, you will dance at Lorance’s wedding a bachelor.  Mademoiselle, you marry in the morning Senor el Conde del Rondelar y Saragossa of his Majesty King Philip’s court.  After dinner you will depart with your husband for Spain.”

Lucas sprang forward, hand on sword, face ablaze with furious protest.  Mayenne, heeding him no more than if he had not been there, rose and went to Mlle de Montluc.

“Have I your obedience, cousin?”

“You know it, monsieur.”

She was curtseying to him when he folded her in his arms, kissing both her cheeks.

“You are as good as you are lovely, and that says much, ma mie.  We will talk a little more about this after supper.  Permit me, mademoiselle.”

He took her hand and led her in leisurely fashion out of the room.

It wondered me that Lucas had not killed him.  He looked murder.  Haply had the duke disclosed by so much as a quivering eyelid a consciousness of Lucas’s rage, of danger to himself, Lucas had struck him down.  But he walked straight past, clad in his composure as in armour, and Lucas made no move.  I think to stab was the impulse of a moment, gone in a moment.  Instantly he was glad he had not killed the Duke of Mayenne, to be cut himself into dice by the guard.  After the duke was gone, Lucas stood still a long time, no less furious, but cogitating deeply.

We had gathered up our jewels and locked our box, and stood holding it between us, waiting our chance to depart.  We might have gone a dozen times during the talking, for none marked us; but M. Etienne, despite my tuggings, refused to budge so long as mademoiselle was in the room.  Now was he ready enough to go, but hesitated to see if Lucas would not leave first.  That worthy, however, showed no intention of stirring,