“Bend your head, my paladin,” commanded Artamène. And, almost glueing his lips to the attentive ear, he whispered into it, “The question is, whether he ever lived, that Blue!”
“Oh!” exclaimed the Vicomte de Céligny, drawing back.
“Oh, and likewise Ah, and many other vocables!” agreed M. de la Vergne, his eyes bright.
“But that means. . .”
Lucien put a finger on his lip. “We don’t discuss it, Roland. We don’t—ahem—allow our minds to dwell on it. But——”
“ ‘Au clair de la lune,’ ” hummed the Chevalier de la Vergne under his breath. “Two gentlemen, seized with a sudden desire for a walk at half past ten at night. I was on duty that evening, and let them out. Also, I met them returning—in perfect amity, I must confess; most correct. You see, M. le Comte had been so obliging as to bandage the wound which he——”
“Don’t go on, Artamène!” cried Lucien warningly. “Remember that we are here in the region of hypothesis only.”
“Listen to our student. ‘The wound which he so signally avenged,’ was what I was going to say, mon cher. Now, is that statement in the region of hypothesis or of fact? If we knew that, we should know all!”
“But, merciful Heavens, why should they——” began Roland, in tones of horrified amazement.
“My good Roland,” replied Artamène, “though most things are in time revealed to enquiring intelligences, such as M. du Boisfossé’s and mine, the reason for that promenade under the goddess of the night has not yet been disclosed. The infernally bad temper in which M. de Bren—— Chut! here’s the Abbé, come to summon you to the scaffold.”