The questions were stormily vehement, the answers so gentle as to be fairly caressing. It was waste of time and dignity to parley with the scoundrel till one could back one's queries with the boot. But M. Étienne's passion knew no waiting. Thrusting the letter into his breast ere I, who had edged up to him, could catch a glimpse of its address, he cried upon Lucas:
"Speak! You were ready enough to jeer at me for a dupe. Tell me what you would do with your dupe. You dared not open the plot to me—you did me the honour to know I would not kill my father. Then why use me blindfold? An awkward game, Lucas."
Lucas disagreed as politely as if exchanging pleasantries in a salon.
"A dexterous game, M. le Comte. Your best friends deemed you guilty. What would your enemies have said?"
"Ah-h," breathed M. Étienne.
"It dawns on you, monsieur? You are marvellous thick-witted, yet surely you must perceive. We had a dozen fellows ready to swear that your hand killed Monsieur."
"You would kill me for my father's murder?"
"Ma foi, no!" cried Lucas, airily. "Never in the world! We should have let you live, in the knowledge that whenever you displeased us we could send you to the gallows."
M. le Comte, silent, stared at him with wild eyes, like one who looks into the open roof of hell. Lucas fell to laughing.
"What! hang you and let our cousin Valère succeed? Mon dieu, no! M. de Valère is a man!"