“Parbleu!” remarked M. de la Vergne, making a face.
“Do you mean angry with you, Chevalier?” pursued the enquirer. “Why?”
“Because I had a hand in M. de Céligny’s enterprise,” explained Artamène, sighing gently. “I would fain have shared it altogether, but I was winged myself then. We planned it together in our retirement last spring—if what we had to leave so largely to chance can be said to have had a plan. And then, when Roland had set out, his grandfather wrote to the Marquis to know what had become of him, and M. le Marquis sent to me, and out it all came . . . at least, most of it. I said that Roland had gone to visit his cousins in Paris, which was true, but not, I must confess, the whole truth. If I may venture a counsel, gentlemen, to such of you as are newcomers, always tell the whole truth when you are dealing with M. le Marquis.”
“And when did _you_ tell the whole truth, then, La Vergne?”
“When I came here,” replied Artamène. He beat a little tattoo on one boot with his riding-switch, and added in a feeling voice, but with a laugh in the corner of his eye, “—a memorable day.”
“And M. de Kersaint was displeased with you?”
“_Displeased!_” exclaimed the culprit. “Had I possessed the gift of metamorphosis the shape of a mouse, a spider—of a gnat, even—had speedily been mine.”
“But,” objected someone, “I do not see in your case, Chevalier, the reason for this excessive wrath at which you hint.”
“Well, for one thing,” returned Artamène pensively, “M. le Marquis had definitely forbidden either of us to go to Mirabel, whereas I . . . and my family . . . had certainly encouraged Roland’s expedition. Then the Marquis seemed to consider also that I had deceived him about Roland by merely telling him of his visit to those confounded cousins (which of course I did solely to shield Roland). In fact he characterised my conduct by a very unpleasant term which I am not going to repeat. (However, we have since made it up, Charlemagne and I.) And thirdly, to such of us as have seen them together, it is undeniable that between M. le Marquis and the Vicomte de Céligny there subsists——”
“Chut!” said the prudent Lucien, holding up a finger.
“Mais, au nom de Dieu, pourquoi _chut_?” demanded Artamène in a voice of injured innocence. “I was merely going to say that there subsisted between them a special affection, of which I, for one, am not in the least jealous. What is the harm in that remark?”