“Does Monsieur le Marquis preach persuasively?”
“In faith, I think so, by the results,” laughed the Comte de Périgny. “Come, confess now, Louis, that the sermon has moved you!”
Louis de Chantemerle had the reputation of accepting a jest in the same spirit in which he made one. “I will confess,” he returned drily, “that the text surprised me,” and he began to move away.
“The text? We will not be ill-bred enough to ask what that was. But the manner of the discourse?”
“Yes, yes,” chimed in another. “Do not be so ill-humoured, my dear Vicomte, as to deprive us of Monsieur le Marquis’ periods! Faith, his demeanour would grace the cassock.”
The Vicomte turned. “Could you not choose a better subject of mirth, gentlemen?” he asked, in somewhat chilling tones. “I confess that I do not find the present one amusing, and I must invite you to remember that the gentleman who has just left us is my cousin, and the head of my house.” His voice rang warningly, and those around him fell instantly into laughing apology. But from the outskirts of the group the late partner of the Knight of Saint Louis, lounging forward from the hearth, saw fit to cap the young man’s last remark.
“And loyalty is, alas, too rare a virtue nowadays that we should discourage it,” he said, in drawling tones which might or might not have spelt intentional insolence.
A momentary gleam was visible in Louis de Saint-Ermay’s eyes, and he seemed about to reply, but in the end merely bit his lip and turned away. M. de Bercy, however, seemed loth to let the subject drop.
“You have my deep sympathy, Vicomte,” he pursued softly. “These unexpected visits play the deuce with one’s arrangements . . . do they not?”
Louis faced round quickly. “What the devil do you mean?”