"Monsieur," I answered gravely, "this is no jest. If you care not to take the warning yourself, give it to others. I myself will warn those of your faith who meet to-night in the Rue des Mathurins. There may be others you know of; give them at least a chance. As for yourself, you have had yours."
What answer he would have made I know not, but at this moment a sharp voice cut in upon us.
"Eh bien, Monsieur de Ganache! but it seems to me that Madame de Valentinois signals to you from the window yonder."
There was a little rustling in the bushes, and Le Brusquet stepped out, his ape perched upon his shoulder.
"Behold!" he said, "the crescent moon is already out." And he pointed to a window overlooking the lawn, where a group of ladies stood watching us.
"It must be to you, Monsieur le Vicomte, that madame signals," Le Brusquet went on. "Orrain here is too ugly, and as for me, she loves me no better than my ape."
With an oath De Ganache pushed past Le Brusquet and hurried across the lawn, leaving us staring after him.
"He had his warning," said Le Brusquet. "I heard every word, and thought it was time to step in ere he drew his poniard. The man is mad! But what is this?" And stepping towards the seat he picked up the small packet of letters that De Ganache was reading.
"They belong to De Ganache," I said; "he was reading them as I came up."
"In that case I will return them to monsieur with my own hands." And Le Brusquet slipped the packet into his pocket. Then turning he took me by the arm and led me off, telling me some absurd story, and laughing loudly, until we had passed out of sight of the windows. Then he stopped.