I wanted only that paper, but the old fool made me fight
for it. Monsieur, but for me you would still have lorded it in France.
'Twas the cloak that brought you to Rochelle, induced your paternal
parent to declare your illegitimacy, made you wind up the night by
flaunting abroad your spotted ticket."
"I am waiting for you," suggested the Chevalier.
"Presently. But what a fine comedy it has been! My faith, it was your
poet who had the instinct. Somehow he saw vaguely through the screen,
but he could not join the separate parts. It was all droll, my word
for it, when I paid you those fifty pistoles that night. But see!
those who stand in my path go out of it one by one; De Brissac,
D'Herouville, and now comes your turn. D'Herouville planned it well;
but it is the old story of the monkey and the cat and the chestnuts in
the fire. You shall wear a crown of agony, Chevalier. The waiting has
been worth while. We shall not kill you; we shall only crucify your
heart . . . by the way of possessing madame."
"Over my body!" The Chevalier cared nothing for these vile insults.
He knew the history of his birth; he knew that he was Madame la
Marquise's son.
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