The other did not move.
“As to my nose,” he said, “it serves its purpose.”
“I don’t doubt it,” cried Cartouche. “The smallest vent is enough for slander. When have you ever known me wrong a friend in his love?”
“Never, indeed—where the wrong’s been expected of you. Perversity’s your crowning devil. You’ve suffered some losses for the pleasure of confuting your oracles, I know. Well, you’ve only to confute them here, to earn my gratitude, at least.”
“A dog to suggest such a villainy!”
“What! to you? Ho, ho! Have you ever heard of carrying owls to Athens? But let it pass. It’s all one if we are in accord as to the impossibility of this alliance between Mademoiselle and our patron, and the timeliness of our young mountaineer’s intrusion. You choose to believe that you will serve monsignore best by helping M. Saint-Péray to the lady. Well, believe it, and save us our reversions by an act of virtue.”
Cartouche, yielding to humour with a sudden laugh, yawned and stretched himself.
“After all,” he said indolently, “there’s no such sporting science as casuistry. Di Rocco is certainly an old bottle for this heady young wine; a villainous scarecrow to be asking for a patch of this bright new cloth. The pattern is out of suits with his raggedness, and calls for a seemly pair of breeches. We’ll save him his character in spite of himself.”
“It would be a veritable act of grace,” said Bonito.
“If we could only do him that good by stealth,” said Cartouche, relighting his pipe.