“Something—­not as much.  I did not want him killed—­I preferred him to Valere.”

“Nor did I want him killed; so our views jibed well.”

“Why not, then?  Did you prefer him as your wife’s lover to some other who might appear?”

“I do not intend that my wife shall have lovers,” Lucas answered.

Mayenne broke into laughter.

“Nom d’un chien, where will you keep her?  In the Bastille?  Lorance and no lovers!  Ho, ho!”

“I mean none whom she favours.”

“Then why do you leave Mar alive?  She adores the fellow,” Mayenne said.  I had no idea whether he really thought it or only said it to annoy Lucas.  At any rate it had its effect.  Lucas’s brows were knotted; he spoke with an effort, like a man under stress of physical pain.

“I know she loves him now, and she would love him dead; but she would not love him a parricide.”

“Is that your creed?  Pardieu! you don’t know women.  The blacker the villain the more they adore him.”

“I know it is true, monsieur,” Lucas said smoothly, “that you have had successes.”

Mayenne started forward with half an oath, changing to a laugh.

“So it is not enough for you to possess the fair body of Lorance; you must also have her love?”

“She will love me,” Lucas answered uneasily.  “She must.”

“It is not worth your fret,” Mayenne declared.  “If she did, how long would it last? Souvent femme varie—­that is the only fixed fact about her.  If Lorance loves Mar to-day, she will love some one else to-morrow, and some one else still the day after to-morrow.  It is not worth while disturbing yourself about it.”

“She will not love any one else,” Lucas said hoarsely.

Mayenne laughed.

“You are very young, Paul.”

“She shall not love any one else!  By the throne of heaven, she shall not!”

Mayenne went on laughing.  If Lucas had for the moment teased him out of his equanimity, the duke had paid back the score a hundredfold.  Lucas’s face was seared with his passions as with the torture-iron; he clinched his hands together, breathing hard.  On my side of the door I heard a sharp little sound in the darkness; mademoiselle had gritted her teeth.

“It is a little early to sweat over the matter,” Mayenne said, “since mademoiselle is not your wife nor ever likely to become so.”

“You refuse her to me?” Lucas cried, livid.  I thought he would leap over the table at one bound on Mayenne.  It occurred to the duke to take up his dagger.

“I promise her to you when you kill me St. Quentin.  And you have not killed me St. Quentin but instead come airily to tell me the scheme—­my scheme—­is wrecked.  Pardieu! it was never my scheme.  I never advocated stolen pistoles and suborned witnesses and angered nephews and deceived sons and the rest of your cumbrous machinery.  I would have had you stab him as he bent over his papers, and walk out of the house before they discovered him.  But you had not the pluck for that; you must needs plot and replot to make some one else do your work.  Now, after months of intriguing and waiting, you come to me to tell me you have failed.  Morbleu! is there any reason why I should not have you kicked into the gutter, as no true son of the valourous Le Balafre?”