"Why that question, child? To M. de Luynes, M. de Mancini's friend."
"And the would-be murderer of Eugène," she added fiercely.
Canaples started.
"Surely such affairs are not for women to meddle with," he cried. "Moreover, M. de Luynes has already given me all details of the affair."
Her eyes grew very wide at that.
"He has told you? Yet you invite him hither?" she exclaimed.
"M. de Luynes has naught wherewith to reproach himself, nor have I. Those details which he has given me I may not impart to you; suffice it, however, that I am satisfied that his conduct could not have been other than it was, whereas that of my son reflects but little credit upon his name."
She stamped her foot, and her eyes, blazing with anger, passed from one to the other of us.
"And you--you believe this man's story?"
"Yvonne!"
"Possibly," I interposed, coolly, "Mademoiselle may have received some false account of it that justifies her evident unbelief in what I may have told you."
It is not easy to give a lie unless you can prove it a lie. I made her realise this, and she bit her lip in vexation. Dame! What a pretty viper I thought her at that moment!
"Let me add, Yvonne," said her father, "that M. de Luynes and I are old comrades in arms." Then turning to me--"My daughter, sir, is but a child, and therefore hasty to pass judgment upon matters beyond her understanding. Forget this foolish outburst, and remember only my assurance of an ever cordial welcome."
"With all my heart," I answered, after a moment's deliberation, during which I had argued that for once I must stifle pride if I would serve Andrea.
"Ough!" was all Mademoiselle's comment as she turned her back upon me. Nevertheless, I bowed and flourished my beaver to her retreating figure.
Clearly Mademoiselle entertained for me exactly that degree of fondness which a pious hermit feels for the devil, and if I might draw conclusions from what evidences I had had of the strength of her character and the weakness of her father's, our sojourn at Blois promised to afford me little delectation. In fact, I foresaw many difficulties that might lead to disaster should our Paris friends appear upon the scene--a contingency this that seemed over-imminent.
It was not my wont, howbeit, to brood over the evils that the future might hold, and to this I owe it that I slept soundly that night in my room at the Lys de France.
It was a pleasant enough chamber on the first floor, overlooking the street, and having an alcove attached to it which served for Michelot.