De Beuvre laughed at the marquis, and called upon the gypsy to tell all he knew.
D'Alvimar would have been glad of a different result of the discussion, for his incredulity was only feigned; he believed that the devil had a hand in all evil, and he determined inwardly to commend La Flèche to the attention of Monsieur Poulain, to be locked up and burned at the first opportunity. But he was none the less consumed, in spite of himself, with anxiety to open the book of his destiny, and he was strongly impelled, moreover, to assume the rôle of a man free from superstitions, before Madame de Beuvre.
La Flèche, being called upon to speak, since he had studied his chart sufficiently, indulged in some serious reflections. He was afraid of the Spaniard. He knew that he ran no risk with people who believed in nothing, for they are not the sort who denounce or accuse sorcerers; and he was too sharp not to understand that, when he tried to withdraw his token, D'Alvimar's object was to escape the revelations which he pretended to despise.
He adopted the course to which he was accustomed to resort when he had to do with people who were inclined to become over-excited—he began to make meaningless remarks to everybody.
He hoped that D'Alvimar would retire, and that he could make some pleasant prediction for the others, for which they would pay handsomely; for in the three days that he had been wandering about the neighborhood, prowling everywhere, listening at doors, or pretending not to understand French to induce people to talk in his presence, he had learned many things; and he knew one fact about D'Alvimar which that gentleman would have been very glad to bury in profound oblivion.
But D'Alvimar, tranquillized by the trivial nature of the predictions, did not retire; La Flèche had ceased to entertain any of the party, and was on the point of making a fiasco, after great preparations to reap a fine harvest.
They were about to dismiss him. He drew himself up.
"Illustrious noble lords," he said, "I am not a sorcerer, I swear it by the image of my patron saint which I wear upon my breast; I protest against any compact with the devil. I practise only white magic, permitted by the ecclesiastical authorities; but——"
"Well, if you are not pledged to the devil, go to the devil!" laughed Monsieur de Beuvre; "you bore us!"
"Very good," said La Flèche insolently; "you want black magic, and you shall have it, at your own risk and peril! but I will have nothing to do with it, I wash my hands of it!"