“And then,” I went on, not heeding his questions in sudden remembrance of my crowning news, “Mayenne and Lucas came in.  And here is something you do not know, monsieur.  Lucas is Paul de Lorraine, Henri de Guise’s son.”

“Mille tonnerres du ciel!  But he is a Huguenot, a Rochelais!”

“Yes, but he is a son of Henri le Balafre.  His mother was Rochelaise, I think.  He was a spy for Navarre and captured at Ivry.  They were going to hang him when Mayenne, worse luck, recognized him for a nephew.  Since then he has been spying for them.  Because Mayenne promised him Mlle. de Montluc in marriage.”

He stared at me with dropped jaw, absolutely too startled to swear.

“He has not got her yet!” I cried.  “Mayenne told him he should have her when he had killed St. Quentin.  And St. Quentin is alive.”

“Great God!” said M. Etienne, only half aloud, dropping down on the arm of his chair, overcome to realize the issue that had hung on a paltry handful of pistoles.  Then, recovering, himself a little, he cried: 

“But she—­mademoiselle?”

“You need give yourself no uneasiness there,” I said.  “Mademoiselle hates him.”

“Does she know—­”

“I think she understands quite well what Lucas is,” I made answer.  “Monsieur, I must tell you everything that happened from the beginning, or I shall never make it clear to you.”

“Yes, yes, go on,” he cried.

He sat down at table again, with the intention of eating his dinner as I talked, but precious few mouthfuls he took.  At every word I spoke he got deeper into the interest of my tale.  I never talked so much in my life, me, as I did those few days.  I was always relating a history, to Monsieur, to mademoiselle, to M. Etienne, to—­well, you shall know.

I had finished at length, and he burst out at me: 

“You little scamp, you have all the luck!  I never saw such a boy!  Well do they call you Felix!  Mordieu, here I lie lapped in bed like a baby, while you go forth knight-erranting.  I must lie here with old Galen for all company, while you bandy words with the Generalissimo himself!  And make faces at Lucas, and kiss the hands of mademoiselle!  But I’ll stand it no longer.  I’m done with lying abed and letting you have all the fun.  No; to-day I shall take part myself.”

“But monsieur’s arm—­”

“Pshaw, it is well!” he cried.  “It is a scratch—­it is nothing.  Pardieu, it takes more than that to put a St. Quentin out of the reckoning.  To-day is no time for sloth; I must act.”

“Monsieur—­” I began, but he broke in on me: 

“Nom de dieu, Felix, are we to sit idle while mademoiselle is carried off by that beast Lucas?”

“Of course not,” I said.  “I was only trying to ask what monsieur meant to do.”

“To take the moon in my teeth,” he cried.

“Yes, monsieur, but how?”

“Ah, if I knew!”