"A victor is always right; and then, too, I shall be avenging a friend."
"Good luck to you then; I have given you fair warning, Marmagne."
"Thanks twice over,—once for the gift and once for the warning."
And Marmagne, delighted beyond measure, thrust the precious paper in his pocket, and set out in all haste to make sure of his two bravos.
"Very good!" said Messire d'Estourville, rubbing his hands and looking after him. "Go on, Viscount, and one of two things will come of it,—either you will avenge me for Benvenuto's victory, or Benvenuto will avenge me for your sarcasm, in any case, I shall be the gainer. I make my enemies of each other; let them fight and kill; I will applaud every blow on either side, for all will be equally gratifying to me."
Let us now cross the Seine and look in upon the occupants of the Grand-Nesle, and see how they were employing their time, pending the results of the provost's militant hatred.
Benvenuto, in the tranquil confidence of conscious strength, had quietly resumed the work he had in hand, without suspecting or caring for Messire d'Estourville's animosity. His day was divided thus. He rose at daybreak, and went at once to a small, isolated room that he had discovered in the garden, above the foundry, with a window from which one could look obliquely into the flower garden of the Petit-Nesle; there he worked during the forenoon upon the model of a small statue of Hebe. After dinner, that is to say, at one o'clock in the afternoon, he went to the studio and worked at his Jupiter; in the evening, for relaxation, he played a game of tennis, or went for a walk.
Now let us see how Catherine employed her time. She sewed and sang and ran hither and thither, instinct with joyous life, much more at her ease in the Grand-Nesle than at the Cardinal of Ferrara's palace.
Ascanio, whose wound made it impossible for him to work, did not find the time irksome, notwithstanding the activity of his mind, for he was dreaming.
If now, availing ourselves of the thief's privilege of climbing walls, we enter the Petit-Nesle, this is what we shall see there. In the first place, Colombe, in her chamber, dreaming like Ascanio. We beg leave to pause here for the moment; all that we can say is, that, while Ascanio's dreams were rose-colored, poor Colombe's were black as night. And then here is Dame Perrine just setting out to market, and we must, if you please, follow her for an instant.