“Parbleu!” remarked M. de la Vergne, making a face.
“Do you mean angry with you, Chevalier?” pursued the enquirer. “Why?”
“Because I had a hand in M. de Céligny’s enterprise,” explained Artamène, sighing gently. “I would fain have shared it altogether, but I was winged myself then. We planned it together in our retirement last spring—if what we had to leave so largely to chance can be said to have had a plan. And then, when Roland had set out, his grandfather wrote to the Marquis to know what had become of him, and M. le Marquis sent to me, and out it all came . . . at least, most of it. I said that Roland had gone to visit his cousins in Paris, which was true, but not, I must confess, the whole truth. If I may venture a counsel, gentlemen, to such of you as are newcomers, always tell the whole truth when you are dealing with M. le Marquis.”
“And when did you tell the whole truth, then, La Vergne?”
“When I came here,” replied Artamène. He beat a little tattoo on one boot with his riding-switch, and added in a feeling voice, but with a laugh in the corner of his eye, “—a memorable day.”
“Dies nefas,” commented Lucien.
“And M. de Kersaint was displeased with you?”
“Displeased!” exclaimed the culprit. “Had I possessed the gift of metamorphosis the shape of a mouse, a spider—of a gnat, even—had speedily been mine.”
A laugh went round his audience.
“But,” objected someone, “I do not see in your case, Chevalier, the reason for this excessive wrath at which you hint.”