Mayenne sat silent, his face a mask. It was impossible to tell whether the shot hit. Monsieur went on:
"You can of course hold us in durance, torture us, kill us; but you must answer for it to the people of Paris."
Still was Mayenne silent, drumming on the edge of the table. Finally he said roughly, as if the words were dragged from him against his will:
"I shall not torture you. I never meant to torture Mar. The arrest was not my work. Since it was done, I meant to profit by it to keep him awhile out of my way—only that. I threatened my cousin otherwise in heat of passion. But I shall not torture him. I shall not kill him."
"Monsieur—"
"I put a card in your hand," Mayenne said curtly. His pride ill brooked to concede the point, but he could not have it supposed that he did not see what he was doing. "I give you a card. Do what you can with it."
"Monsieur, you show what little surprises me—knightly generosity. It is to that generosity I appeal."
"Is the horse of that colour? But now you were frightening my prudence."
"Ah, but how fortunate the man to whom generosity and prudence point the same path!"
It may have been but pretence, this smiling bonhomie of Monsieur's. Mayenne doubtless gauged it as such, but, at any rate, he suffered it to warm him. He regained of a sudden all the amiability with which he had greeted his guest. Smiling and calm, he answered: