"St. Quentin, I care little for either your threats or your cajoleries. They amuse me alike, and move me not. But I have a care for my sweet cousin. Since you threaten me with her danger, you have the whiphand."
Now it was Monsieur's turn to sit discreetly silent, waiting.
"I went last night to tell the child I would not harm her lover. Lo! she had flown. I had a regiment searching Paris for her. I was in the streets myself till dawn."
"Monsieur, she made her way to us at St. Denis to offer herself to our torture did you torture Mar."
"Morbleu!" Mayenne cried, half rising.
"God's mercy, we're not ruffians out there! I tell it to show you to what the maid was strung."
"I never thought it great matter whom one married," Mayenne said slowly: "one boy is much like another. I should have mated her as befitted her station—I thought she would be happy enough. And she was good about it: I did not see how deep she cared. She was docile till I drove her too hard. She's a loving child. You are fortunate in your daughter, St. Quentin."
Monsieur sprang up radiant, advancing on him open-armed. Mayenne added, with his cool smile:
"You need not flatter yourself, Monsieur, that it is your doing. I laugh at your threats. 'Twere sport to me to clap you behind bars, to say to your king, to the mob you brag of, 'Come, now, get him out.'"
"Then," cried Monsieur, "I must value my sweet daughter more than ever."