"Ah, but you believe it," said my father quickly.
I do not think he ever heard my answer. He had turned unsteadily in his chair, and was facing the dying embers of the fire, his left hand limp on the table before him. Again the spasm of pain crossed his face. Mademoiselle still watched him, but without a trace of triumph. Indeed, she seemed more kindly and more gentle than I had ever known her.
"Five hundred bales of shavings," she softly. "Ah, captain, there are not many men who would do it. Not any that I know, save you and the Marquis."
"Brutus," said my father, "a glass of rum."
With his eyes still on the fire, he drank the spirits, and sighed. "And now, Brutus," he continued, "my volume of Rabelais."
But when it was placed beside him, he left it unopened, and still continued to study the shifting scenes in the coals.
XII
Was it possible that I cared? There she was leaning toward him, the flames from the fire dancing softly before her face, giving her dark hair a hundred new lights and shadows. Her lips were parted, and in her eyes was silent entreaty. I felt a sudden unaccountable impulse to snatch up the volume of Rabelais, to face my father again, weapon or no weapon, to show her—
"Come, captain," said Mademoiselle gently. "Must you continue this after it has turned into a farce? Must you continue acting from pique, when the thing has been over for more years than you care to remember? Must you keep on now because of a whim to make your life miserable and the lives of others? Will you threaten fifty men with death and ruin, because you once were called a thief? It is folly, sir, and you know it, utter useless folly! Pray do not stare at me. It was easy enough to piece your story together. I guessed it long ago. I have listened too often to you and the Marquis at wine. Come, captain, give me back the paper."
With his old half smile, my father turned to her and nodded in pleasant acknowledgment.