"Great God!" said M. Étienne, only half aloud, dropping down on the arm of his chair, overcome to realize the issue that had hung on a paltry handful of pistoles. Then, recovering, himself a little, he cried:
"But she—mademoiselle?"
"You need give yourself no uneasiness there," I said. "Mademoiselle hates him."
"Does she know—"
"I think she understands quite well what Lucas is," I made answer. "Monsieur, I must tell you everything that happened from the beginning, or I shall never make it clear to you."
"Yes, yes, go on," he cried.
He sat down at table again, with the intention of eating his dinner as I talked, but precious few mouthfuls he took. At every word I spoke he got deeper into the interest of my tale. I never talked so much in my life, me, as I did those few days. I was always relating a history, to Monsieur, to mademoiselle, to M. Étienne, to—well, you shall know.
I had finished at length, and he burst out at me:
"You little scamp, you have all the luck! I never saw such a boy! Well do they call you Félix! Mordieu, here I lie lapped in bed like a baby, while you go forth knight-erranting. I must lie here with old Galen for all company, while you bandy words with the Generalissimo himself! And make faces at Lucas, and kiss the hands of mademoiselle! But I'll stand it no longer. I'm done with lying abed and letting you have all the fun. No; to-day I shall take part myself."
"But monsieur's arm—"