"Despard is my wart," said the marquis, dryly. "As to being afraid, my good François, I never had the malady, not even as a boy."
"Dame! I have it now; and to get out of this is impossible."
"I think so. Did you mention Despard?"
"No; it was monsieur spoke of him."
"Quite true—quite true. He found me at last. Confound the fellow! I did not credit him with being clever."
"So this is his man with a wart?" thought François, but made no comment. He had not fully comprehended the simile with which this impassive seigneur illustrated the fact that but one of his many misdeeds had cast on his future a lengthening shadow of what he would have hesitated to call remorse.
"François," he said, "you and I are new additions to this queer collection. I may as well warn you that even here spies abound. Why? The deuce knows. Barn-yard fowls are not less considered than are we. It is the tribunal one day; then the Conciergerie; and next day, affaire finie, the business is over. Meanwhile, you are in the best society in France. There are M. de la Ferté, the Comte de Mirepoix, the Duc de Lévis, the Marquis de Fleury. I used to think them dull; calamity has not sharpened their wits. Diable! but you are welcome." The marquis had all his life amused himself with small regard to what was thought of him or his ways of recreation. "'T is a bit of luck to find you here in this hole." François could hardly agree with the opinion, but he laughed as he said so.
"Here comes my old comrade, De Laval Montmorency. He is still a gay jester. He says we are like Saul and that other fellow, Jonathan, except that in death we shall both of us to a certainty be divided."
"Ciel! 't is a ghastly joke, monsieur."
"It has decidedly a flavor of the locality. I must not play telltale about you, or they will put you in the rez-de-chaussée, and, by St. Denis! I should miss you. I shall have a little amusement in perplexing these gentlemen. Your face will betray you; it used to be pretty well known. However, we shall see."