“You are surprised to see me here,” he said. “Did you think the Bastile was for me? Tut! I had not got out of the country when we a packet came, bearing fresh commands. La Pompadour forgave me, and in the King’s name bade me return to New France, and in her own she bade me get your papers, or hang you straight. And—you will think it singular—if need be, I was to relieve the Governor and Bigot also, and work to save New France with the excellent Marquis de Montcalm.” He laughed. “You can see how absurd that is. I have held my peace, and I keep my commission in my pocket.”
I looked at him amazed that he should tell me this. He read my look, and said:
“Yes, you are my confidant in this. I do not fear you. Your enemy is bound in honour, your friend may seek to serve himself.” Again he laughed. “As if I, Tinoir Doltaire—note the agreeable combination of peasant and gentleman in my name—who held his hand from ambition for large things in France, should stake a lifetime on this foolish hazard! When I play, Captain Moray, it is for things large and vital. Else I remain the idler, the courtier—the son of the King.”
“Yet you lend your vast talent, the genius of those unknown possibilities, to this, monsieur—this little business of exchange of prisoners,” I retorted ironically.
“That is my whim—a social courtesy.”
“You said you knew nothing of the chaplain,” I broke out.
“Not so. I said he was on no record given me. Officially I know nothing of him.”
“Come,” said I, “you know well how I am concerned for him. You quibble; you lied to our General.”
A wicked light shone in his eyes. “I choose to pass that by, for the moment,” said he. “I am sorry you forget yourself; it were better for you and me to be courteous till our hour of reckoning, Shall we not meet some day?” he said, with a sweet hatred in his tone.
“With all my heart.”