"Dieu m'en garde!" The Marquis was appalled. "Nay, monsieur, merely an
unforeseeable attack of heart-disease."
"Ah! ah!" said John Bulmer, very slowly. He presently resumed: "Afterward
the Duchesse de Puysange will be a widow. And already she is fond of you;
but unfortunately the Duchess--with every possible deference,--is a trifle
prudish. I see it all now, quite plainly; and out of pure friendliness,
I warn you that in my opinion the Duchess is hopelessly in love with her
husband."
"We should suspect no well bred lady of provincialism," returned the
Marquis, "and so I shall take my chance. Believe me, Monsieur le Duc, I
profoundly regret that you and Gaston must be sacrificed in order to afford
me this same chance."
But John Bulmer was chuckling. "My faith!" he said, and softly chafed his
hands together, "how sincerely you will be horrified when your impetuous
error is discovered--just too late! You were merely endeavoring to serve
your beloved Gaston and the Duke of Ormskirk when you hanged the rascal
who had impudently stolen the woman intended to cement their friendship!
The Duke fell a victim to his own folly, and you acted precipitately,
perhaps, but out of pure zeal. You will probably weep. Meanwhile your
lettre-de-cachet is on the road, and presently Gaston, too, is trapped
and murdered. You weep yet more tears--oh, vociferous tears!---and the
Duchess succumbs to you because you were so devotedly attached to her
former husband. And England will sit snug while France reconquers Europe.
Monsieur, I make you my compliments on one of the tidiest plots ever
brooded over."
"It rejoices me," the Marquis returned, "that a conspirator of many years'
standing should commend my maiden effort." He rose. "And now, Monsieur
d'Ormskirk," he continued, with extended hand, "matters being thus amicably
adjusted, shall we say adieu?"
John Bulmer considered. "Well,--no!" said he, at last; "I commend your
cleverness, Monsieur de Soyecourt, but as concerns your hand I must confess
to a distaste."
The Marquis smiled. "Because at the bottom of your heart you despise me,"
he said. "Ah, believe me, monsieur, your contempt for de Soyecourt is less
great than mine. And yet I have a weakness for him,--a weakness which
induces me to indulge all his desires."
He bowed with ceremony and left the garden.