"But I was engaged in no civil wars," exclaimed the young Marquis. "My men were at the Louvre. I was not fighting on the part of the King: I was not engaged in trampling down the people. But what was I busied with, Abbé de Boisguerin? I was engaged in a scheme for carrying off--from him she loved, and from those who had a right to protect her--one whom I had no title to control, whom I was bound by honour to guard and to defend. I was injuring her; I was preparing to injure her. If I had not lied to her myself, I had caused her to be deceived and lied to; and all that I had previously done made the act itself which I had committed, but the more hateful. Speak not to me of consolation, Abbé; speak not to me of hope or comfort. You of all men, do not venture to mention to me a word like happiness or confidence." "And why not, my Lord?" demanded the Abbé somewhat sternly. "What have I done to merit reproach in the matter?" "Has it not been you that have prompted me throughout?" demanded the Marquis. "Was it not you who devised the scheme, prepared the means, got possession of the Queen's letter by corrupting her servants. Was it not your tool, that, upon pretence of assisting her to the other gates of the hotel, got her into our power; and was it not you, when her prayers and entreaties and agitation would have made me yield--was it not you that resisted, and remorselessly bade the men carry her on? Did you not yourself stand by me when the shot was fired; and was it not your warning, that disgrace and death must follow hesitation, which winged the ball that took my brother's life?"