"Dieu!" gasped M. Étienne, "Monsieur!"
For a moment we all kept silence, motionless; then Monsieur flung his sword over the wall.
"Do your will, Étienne."
His son darted forward with a cry.
"Monsieur, Monsieur, I am not your assassin! I came to your aid not dreaming who you were; but, had I known, I would have fought a hundred times the harder. I never plotted against you. On the honour of a St. Quentin I swear it."
Monsieur said naught, and we could not see his face; could not know whether he believed or rejected, softened or condemned.
M. Étienne, catching at his breath, went on:
"Monsieur, I know it is hard to credit. I have been a bad son to you, unloving, rebellious, insolent. We quarrelled; I spoke bitter words. But I am no ruffian. I am a St. Quentin. Had you had me whipped from the house, still would I never have raised hand against you. I knew nothing of the plot. Félix told you I was in it—small blame to him. But he was wrong. I knew naught of it."
Had he been content to rest his case here, I think Monsieur could not but have believed his innocence on his bare word. The stones in the pavement must have known that he was uttering truth. But he in his eagerness paused for no answer, but went on to stun Monsieur with statements new and amazing to his ear.
"My cousin Grammont—who is dead—was in the plot, and his lackey Pontou, and Martin the clerk; but the contriver was Lucas."