"Manicamp, you are a brave man, and the king will appreciate your conduct; but to wish to serve your friends too well is to destroy them. Manicamp, you know the name the king asks you for?"
"It is perfectly true—I do know it."
"You will give it up then?"
"If I felt I ought to have mentioned it, I should have already done so."
"Then I will tell it, for I am not so extremely sensitive on such points of honor as you are."
"You are at liberty to do so, but it seems to me, however—"
"Oh! a truce to magnanimity; I will not permit you to go to the Bastille in that way. Do you speak; or I will."
Manicamp was keen-witted enough, and perfectly understood that he had done quite sufficient to produce a good opinion of his conduct: it was now only a question of persevering in such a manner as to regain the good graces of the king. "Speak, monsieur," he said to Saint-Aignan: "I have on my own behalf done all that my conscience told me to do, and it must have been very importunate," he added, turning toward the king, "since its mandates led me to disobey your majesty's commands; but your majesty will forgive me, I hope, when you learn that I was anxious to preserve the honor of a lady."
"Of a lady?" said the king, with some uneasiness.
"Yes, sire."