“And has M. Paul been haunting the Rue de la Boucherie, too?” said he. “That, indeed, is to put another face on the business. 'Tis, ma foi! to expect too much of M. Albany's complaisance. After that there is nothing for us but to go home. And, harkee! M. Bonnat, no more Venetian work, or, by St. Denys, I shall throw you into the harbour.”
“You must ever have your joke, my noble M. le Capitaine,” said Bonnat brazenly, and tucked his hat on the side of the head. “M. Blanc-bec there handles arme blanche rather prettily, thanks, no doubt, to the gallant commander of the Roi Rouge, but if he has a mother let me suggest the wisdom of his going back to her.” And with that and a congé he left us to enter the auberge.
Thurot and I went into the town. He was silent most of the way, ruminating upon this affair, which it was plain he could unravel better than I could, yet he refused to give me a hint at the cause of it. I pled with him vainly for an explanation of the Prince's objection to my person. “I thought he had quite forgiven my innocent part in the Hamilton affair,” I said.
“And so he had,” said Thurot. “I have his own assurances.”
“'Tis scarcely like it when he sets a hired assassin on my track to lure me into a duel.”
“My dear boy,” said Thurot, “you owe him all—your escape from Bicêtre, which could easily have been frustrated; and the very prospect of the lieutenancy in the Regiment d'Auvergne.”
“What! he has a hand in this?” I cried.
“Who else?” said he. “'Tis not the fashion in France to throw unschooled Scots into such positions out of hand, and only princes may manage it. It seems, then, that we have our Prince in two moods, which is not uncommon with the same gentleman. He would favour you for the one reason, and for the other he would cut your throat. M. Tête-de-fer is my eternal puzzle. And the deuce is that he has, unless I am much mistaken, the same reason for favouring and hating you.”
“And what might that be?” said I.
“Who, rather?” said Thurot, and we were walking down the Rue de la Boucherie. “Why, then, if you must have pointed out to you what is under your very nose, 'tis the lady who lives here. She is the god from the machine in half a hundred affairs no less mysterious, and I wish she were anywhere else than in Dunkerque. But, anyway, she sent you with Hamilton, and she has secured the favour of the Prince for you, and now—though she may not have attempted it—she has gained you the same person's enmity.”