Bonito, risen, shot one significant glance at Cartouche, and then lowered his eyes as his patron entered.
“Monsignore’s suit has sped?” he murmured.
“Drawn by doves,” crowed the Marquess; “flown straight as a bee into the bosom of love, where it stops to hive.”
He crossed to the table, took up the bottle, cried, “Ha, you inordinate dog!” to Cartouche; slapped him on the back with, “A thief of a cellarer, go hang!” and blew out the candle.
“Who can’t drink by moonlight,” he cried, “is no chaste Diana’s servant. I’ll have to immure thee, dangerous rogue, among thy bottles.”
The moonlight, as he spoke, striking from a white window-sill, threw up all his features grossly. He looked like some infernal sort of negro, flat-nosed, monstrous-lipped.
“It was my candle, padrone,” said Cartouche, placidly sucking at his pipe. “I think I will light it again, and this time at both ends.”
But di Rocco, paying no attention to him, was flicking at the astrolabe on the table.
“This folly, Bonito,” he said. “I am at an end of it all. What did it ever foretell me but lies?”
The physician rescued his instrument gravely.