“Silence, you cub,” cried Maître le Bastien; “this gentleman is the Marquis de Cernay.”
Michaud fell back open-mouthed; his face turning from white to red. His crazy jealousy of me had made him betray us, and now he was dumbfounded.
“If I had my cane here, I would lay it over the rascal’s shoulders,” said the Master Goldsmith grimly; “these varlets that insult their betters deserve hanging.”
“Tut!” I said, laughing; “if it had only been the disrespect to me, it would not matter; the fellow is not worth the caning, but he has imperilled a noble lady and lost us our liberty. However, as we cannot hang him, let his conscience do it, Maître le Bastien.”
“He shall be dismissed from my service without a sou,” said the goldsmith sternly.
At this the knave began to whimper, overcome with shame and consternation.
“I vow I meant no harm, but the spoiling of monsieur’s trick,” he protested. “I did not know what the great brute said, until Advotia told me, and then he had whistled up his men and had me fast enough. I do swear to you, Maître le Bastien, that I never dreamed of any peril for either of you; I thought that M. le Marquis only meant to frighten me. I am not ungrateful to you, my master, or unfaithful,” and the fellow drew his sleeve across his eyes.
“Much cause you have to talk of gratitude and faith,” retorted the master harshly; “you are a rascal from head to heels!”
“Was I a rascal when I stood between you and the dagger on the rue Saint Denis?” cried Michaud hotly. “Was I a rascal when I nursed you through the fever at Blois, in ’79?”
Maître le Bastien was silent, his face changing. As for me, I saw now the whole matter; the fellow had been jealous of his master’s favour. I was a new apprentice, or claimed to be one, and had been admitted at once to a greater intimacy and confidence than he had ever attained; I had eaten at his employer’s table and done no work.