'Then that painted ape, d'Ayen, told a true tale,' I burst out in uncontrollable anger. 'Monseigneur, do what you will to me. Remember that you help to the eternal dishonour of the King.'
The words hit him, and the blood flushed darkly under the pale olive of the man's cheek.
'Monsieur, you forget yourself.'
'It is not I, but you who do so—you who forget that your name is Béthune. Yes, touch that bell. I make no resistance. I presume it will be the Chatelet?'
His hand, half stretched towards the button of the call-bell before him, suddenly stayed itself.
'Were my temper as hasty as your tongue, monsieur, it would have been the Chatelet in half an hour.'
'Better that——' I began, but he interrupted me with a quick wave of his hand.
'Monsieur d'Auriac, a time will come when you will have reason to regret the words you have used towards me. I do not mean regret them in the place you have mentioned, but in your heart. In this business the honour of Béthune as well as the honour of the King is at stake. Do you think I am likely to throw my hazard like an infant?'
I was silent, but a dim ray of hope flickered up in my heart as I looked at the man before me, and felt, I know not why, in the glance of his eye, in the tone of the voice, in his very gestures, that here was one who had conquered himself, and who knew how to rule.
'Now, sir,' he went on, the animation in his tone dropping to a cold and frigid note, 'proceed with your tale.'