“It is nothing,” he repeated. “It is nothing. You are wasting time, monsieur.”
“All right, my friend,” said his master, releasing him at last, “but I wanted to be quite sure;” and he turned to an inspection of the room.
It was sadly wrecked, the furniture blown asunder, the tapestries smoking on the splintered floor; but the walls were intact, impregnable. M. le Comte smiled as he looked at them.
“As well assault a lion with pebbles as this tower with hand-grenades,” he said. “We are safe as ever.”
“Except in one particular, monsieur,” broke in Pasdeloup in a low voice. “They are now quite certain that we have taken refuge here. Before, perhaps, they only suspected it.”
“That is true,” agreed his master thoughtfully. “Well, let us see what the next move will be;” and he blew out the candle and mounted to the platform. “Everything is safe,” he added, in answer to madame’s look, and joined her at the parapet.
As for me, I boldly took the place I coveted beside the younger woman.
“It reminds one of Rome burning,” I said, gazing down at the flames and the frenzied multitude. “I might almost fancy myself a second Nero—you perceive that the populace is cursing us.”
“Yes,” she retorted without raising her eyes, “and no doubt, like Nero, you would fiddle in the face of those curses.”
“There are moments,” I said, “when joy of heart enables one to smile at any misfortune.”