"Shall we let it go without discussion, monsieur?"
"No. Montlivet, you are more a fool than any man I ever knew. You have more strained ideas. You are preposterous. You belong to the Middle Ages. Every one says so. Let me speak."
"Not about my marriage, monsieur."
"Why not? I am responsible. I let you saddle yourself with the situation. You did it partly to save me. You are always doing some crack-brained thing like that. I tell you, you are more a fool than I ever knew. Perhaps that is the reason that we all went into mourning when we thought the Iroquois had you."
"Monsieur! Monsieur!"
"No, wait, wait! I got you into this, I shall get you out. Unless the
Indians make trouble I shall send Starling home with a convoy of my own
Indians. Your—the woman shall go with him. Then we will see what can
be done about the marriage. The story shall go to the Vatican."
I moved the candles that I might see his face without the play of light and shadow between.
"Monsieur, you forget. The story that you speak of is mine. If I wish to refer it to the Vatican, I, myself, take it there. As to Madame de Montlivet,—she may wish to go east with her cousin; she may wish to remain here. The decision will rest with her. Monsieur?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"I may depend on you not to mention what we have just said to any one?"