“Aye, and you must stay happy.  Pardieu, what does it matter whether your husband have yellow hair or brown?  My brother Henri was for getting himself into a monastery because he could not have his Margot.  Yet in less than a year he is as merry as a fiddler with the Duchesse Katharine.”

“You have made me happy, to-night at least, monsieur,” she answered gently, if not merrily.

“It is the most foolish act of my life,” Mayenne answered.  “But it is for you, Lorance.  If ill comes to me by it, yours is the credit.”

“You can swear him to silence, monsieur,” she cried quickly.

“What use?  He would not keep silence.”

“He will if I ask it,” she returned, flinging me a look of bright confidence that made the blood dance in my veins.  But Mayenne laughed.

“When you have lived in the world as long as I have, you will not so flatter yourself, Lorance.”

Thus it happened that I was not bound to silence concerning what I had seen and heard in the house of Lorraine.

Mayenne took out his dagger.

“What I do I do thoroughly.  I said I’d set you free.  Free you shall be.”

Mademoiselle sprang forward with pleading hand.

“Let me cut the cords, Cousin Charles.”

He recoiled a bare second, the habit of a lifetime prompting him against the putting of a weapon in any one’s hand.  Then, ashamed of the suspicion, which indeed was not of her, he yielded the knife and she cut my bonds.  She looked straight into my eyes, with a glance earnest, beseeching, loving; I could not begin to read all she meant by it.  The next moment she was making her deep curtsey before the duke.

“Monsieur, I shall never cease to love you for this.  And now I thank you for your long patience, and bid you good night.”

With a bare inclination of the head to Lucas, she turned to go.  But Mayenne bade her pause.

“Do I get but a curtsey for my courtesy?  No warmer thanks, Lorance?”

He held out his arms to her, and she let him kiss both her cheeks.

“I will conduct you to the staircase, mademoiselle,” he said, and taking her hand with stately politeness led her from the room.  The light seemed to go from it with the gleam of her yellow gown.

“Lorance!” Lucas cried to her, but she never turned her head.  He stood glowering, grinding his teeth together, his glib tongue finding for once no way to better his sorry case.  He was the picture of trickery rewarded; I could not repress a grin at him.  Marking which, he burst out at me, vehemently, yet in a low tone, for Mayenne had not closed the door: 

“You think I am bested, do you, you devil’s brat?  Let him laugh that wins; I shall have her yet.”

“I will tell M. le Comte so,” I answered with all the impudence I could muster.

“By Heaven, you will tell him nothing,” he cried.  “You will never see daylight again.”