"Monsieur, you said you were done with the Leaguers—with M. de Mayenne."
"Aye, so I did," he cried. "But this—but this is Lorance."
Then, at my look of mystification, he suddenly opened his hand and tossed me the letter he had held close in his palm.
I read:
M. de Mar appears to consider himself of very little consequence, or of very great, since he is absent a whole month from the Hôtel de Lorraine. Does he think he is not missed? Or is he so sure of his standing that he fears no supplanting? In either case he is wrong. He is missed but he will not be missed forever. He may, if he will, be forgiven; or he may, if he will, be forgotten. If he would escape oblivion, let him come to-night, at the eleventh hour, to lay his apologies at the feet of
LORANCE DE MONTLUC.
"And she—"
"Is cousin and ward to the Duke of Mayenne. Yes, and my heart's desire."
"Monsieur—"
"Aye, you begin to see it now," he cried vehemently. "You see why I have stuck to Paris these three years, why I could not follow my father into exile. It was more than a handful of pistoles caused the breach with Monsieur; more than a quarrel over Gervais de Grammont. That was the spark kindled the powder, but the train was laid."