"My head is used to the pillow. Do the teeth close, I am no worse off than my son."
"Your death makes your son's no easier."
"Why, what else to do, Rosny?" Monsieur exclaimed. "Mishandle the lady? Storm Paris? Sell the Cause?"
"I would we could storm Paris," Rosny sighed. "It would suit me better to seize the prisoner than to sue for him. But Paris is not ripe for us yet. You know my plan—to send to Villeroi. I believe he could manage this thing."
"I am second to none," Monsieur said politely, "in my admiration of M. de Villeroi's abilities. But to reach him is uncertain; what he can or will do, uncertain. Étienne de Mar is not Villeroi's son; he is mine."
"Aye, it is your business," Rosny assented. "It is yours to take your way."
"A mad way, but mine. But come, now, Rosny, you must admit that once or twice, when all your wiseacres were deadlocked, my madness has served."
Rosny took Monsieur's hand in a silent grip.
"Maximilien," the duke said, smiling down on him, "what a pity you are a scamp of a heretic!"
"Henri," Rosny returned gravely, "I would you had had the good fortune to be born in the Religion."