"Haganè!" Ronsard had exclaimed in spite of himself. He knew it meant the utmost of something, but which—glory or dishonor? Either was incredible. "Yes, yes, Pierre," he said soothingly, as to a child; "Haganè's body—I understand. But why—didn't—Haganè stop you?"
"Why? It is droll—he could not! He was tied, tangled. His feet were tangled—yes, tightly entangled! He was too busy with that to follow."
Pierre's laugh turned Ronsard sick.
"What or who entangled him, Pierre?"
"You keep her name out of this, damn you!"
Ronsard's pendent underlip went gray to the root. "Then she will die, too." He breathed it to himself.
Whether Pierre heard or not, his tense attitude relaxed. He cowered back in his chair. Mouquin, thinking he had fainted, ran forward.
"No! No more absinthe! No medicine! Coffee! For God's sake, coffee! That may keep me up."
A new thought flashed to Ronsard. "Mouquin! Ring, and yourself receive the coffee—just outside the door."
His words rang quick and clear. "We must think, now, like gods or demons for swiftness," he went on to Pierre. "Haganè will be with us at once! How did you keep ahead? You must deny, deny! Don't you see, it compromises France?"