“Of course not, monsieur.  I quite understood that when I entered the gate.  I shall never leave this house if you will otherwise.”

“You will leave the house unharmed,” Mayenne said curtly.  “I shall not treat you as your late master treated my brother.”

“I thank your generosity, monsieur, and commend your good sense.”

Mayenne looked for a moment as if he repented of both.  Then he broke into a laugh.

“One permits the insolences of the court jester.”

Monsieur sprang up, his hand on his sword.  But at once the quick flush passed from his face, and he, too, laughed.

Mayenne sat as he was, in somewhat lowering silence.  My duke made a step nearer him, and spoke for the first time with perfect seriousness.

“My Lord Mayenne, it was no outrecuidance brought me here this morning.  There is the Bastille.  There is the axe.  I know that my course has been offensive to you—­your nephew proved me that.  I know also that you do not care to meddle with me openly.  At least, you have not meddled.  Whether you will change your method—­but I venture to believe not.  I am popular just now in Paris.  I had more cheers as I came in this morning than have met your ears for many a month.  You have a great name for prudence, M. de Mayenne; I believe you will not molest me.”

I hardly thought my duke was making a great name for prudence.  But then, as he said, he had to work in his own way.  Mayenne returned, with chilling calm: 

“You may find me, St. Quentin, less timid than you suppose.”

“Impossible.  Mayenne’s courage is unquestioned.  I rely not on his timidity, but on his judgment.”

“You take a great deal upon yourself in supposing that I wanted your death on Tuesday and do not want it on Friday.”

“The king is three days nearer the true faith than on Tuesday.  His party is three days stronger.  On Tuesday it would have been a blunder to kill me; on Friday it is three days worse a blunder.”

“But not less a pleasure.  I have had something of the kind in mind ever since your master killed my brother.”

“You should profit by that murderer’s experience before you take a leaf from his book, M. de Mayenne.  Henry of Valois gained singularly little when he slew Guise to make you head of the League.”

Mayenne started, and then laughed to show his scorn of the flattery.  But I think he was, all the same, half pleased, none the less because he knew it to be flattery.  He said unexpectedly: 

“Your son comes honestly by his unbound tongue.”

“Ah, my son!  Now that you mention him, we shall discuss him a little.  You have put my son, monsieur, in the Bastille.”

“No; Belin and my nephew Paul, whom you know, have put him there.”

“But M. de Mayenne can get him out if he choose.”

“If he choose.”

Monsieur sat down again, with the air of one preparing for an amiable discussion.