"Pshaw, it is well!" he cried. "It is a scratch—it is nothing. Pardieu, it takes more than that to put a St. Quentin out of the reckoning. To-day is no time for sloth; I must act."
"Monsieur—" I began, but he broke in on me:
"Nom de dieu, Félix, are we to sit idle while mademoiselle is carried off by that beast Lucas?"
"Of course not," I said. "I was only trying to ask what monsieur meant to do."
"To take the moon in my teeth," he cried.
"Yes, monsieur, but how?"
"Ah, if I knew!"
He stared at me as if he would read the answer in my face, but he found it as blank as the wall. He flung away and made a turn down the room, and came back to seize me by the arm.
"How are we to do it, Félix?" he demanded.
But I could only shrug my shoulders and answer: