“Come, come, my friend, cheer up. Don’t mope your life away because your light o’ love is false.”
This delicate counsel the mousquetaires greeted with vociferous applause.
D’Aubuisson sprang to his feet with flashing eyes.
“Vicomte de Brissac,” he cried, “hold! The first who breathes a word against that angel dies. I swear it, by this sword!”
The mousquetaires were silent; not that they respected his evident emotion—they respected little enough, not even themselves—but they did respect his sword.
“Why, man!” said De Brissac at length, “you don’t mean to say you are in earnest—that you would marry the girl?”
“To-morrow, if she would have me. God knows how willingly; and to-morrow I lose her for ever.”
With a groan the chevalier sank back into his seat and buried his face in his hands.
“Tut, tut, man!” said De Brissac, who was naturally kind-hearted. “If you love her so, why give her up tamely? She must like you better than this shop-keeper.” Our mousquetaires had a brave contempt for all men who earned their living honestly. “Why not make a bold push for it and carry her off from under his nose? We’ll all stand by you”—“That will we,” in chorus from the rest—“and, take my word for it, the bird will thank you for her rescue from the fowler.”
D’Aubuisson looked up quickly, a gleam of hope in his face. But his brow soon grew dark; he knew Pauline too well to believe that she would sanction or forgive such an act of violence, however much she loved him. And he was more than half persuaded she did love him, in spite of her rejection, conceited young mousquetaire that he was; he was fully persuaded she did not love Raoul, both from his own observation and the statements of Papa Lamouracq’s old housekeeper, Angélique, whom he had won to his interests. If he could but bring her to consent! It was a forlorn hope, but he would make a last appeal.