"It is a little early to sweat over the matter," Mayenne said, "since mademoiselle is not your wife nor ever likely to become so." "You refuse her to me?" Lucas cried, livid. I thought he would leap over the table at one bound on Mayenne. It occurred to the duke to take up his dagger. "I promise her to you when you kill me St. Quentin. And you have not killed me St. Quentin but instead come airily to tell me the scheme--my scheme--is wrecked. Pardieu! it was never my scheme. I never advocated stolen pistoles and suborned witnesses and angered nephews and deceived sons and the rest of your cumbrous machinery. I would have had you stab him as he bent over his papers, and walk out of the house before they discovered him. But you had not the pluck for that; you must needs plot and replot to make some one else do your work. Now, after months of intriguing and waiting, you come to me to tell me you have failed. Morbleu! is there any reason why I should not have you kicked into the gutter, as no true son of the valourous Le Balafré?" Lucas's hand went to his belt again; he made one step as if to come around the table. Mayenne's angry eye was on him but he did not move; and Lucas made no more steps. Controlling himself with an effort, he said: "It was not my fault, monsieur. No man could have laboured harder or planned better than I. I have been diligent, I have been clever. I have made my worst enemy my willing tool--I have made Monsieur's own son my cat's-paw. I have left no end loose, no contingency unprovided for--and I am ruined by a freak of fate." "I never knew a failure yet but what the fault was fate's," Mayenne returned. "Call it accident, then, call it the devil, call it what you like!" Lucas cried. "I still maintain it was not my fault. Listen, monsieur." He sat down again and began his story, striving as he talked to reconquer something of his old coolness. "The thing was ruined by the advent of this boy, Mar's lackey I spoke of. You said he had not been here?" "You may go to Lorance with that question," Mayenne answered; "I have something else to attend to than the intrigues of my wife's maids." "He started hither; I thought some one would have the sense to keep him. Mordieu! I will find from Lorance whether she saw him." He fell silent, gnawing his lip; I could see that his thought had travelled away from the plot to the sore subject of mademoiselle's affections. "Well," said Mayenne, sharply, "what about your boy?" It was a moment before Lucas answered. When he did he spoke low and hurriedly, so that I could scarce catch the words. I knew it was no fear of listeners that kept his voice down--they had shouted at each other as if there was no one within a mile. I guessed that Lucas, for all his bravado, took little pride in his tale, nor felt happy about its reception. I could catch names now and then, Monsieur's, M. Étienne's, Grammont's, but the hero of the tale was myself.