“Ma foi, monseigneur, if I am not dead, it is thanks to no one but myself. You get me into nice situations; that ball at St. Luc’s was a regular snare, and they have nearly drained all the blood out of my body.”
“They shall pay for it, Bussy; they shall pay dearly.”
“Yes, you say so,” said Bussy, with his usual liberty, “and you will smile on the first you meet.”
“Well! accompany me to the Louvre, and you shall see.”
“What shall I see, monseigneur?”
“How I will speak to my brother.”
“You promise me reparation?”
“I promise you shall be content. You hesitate still, I believe.”
“Monseigneur, I know you so well.”
“Come, I tell you.”