"Well, that is just my case," I answered. "You see this young fellow
St. Mesmin was commended to me, and is, in a manner, of my household;
and that is a fatal objection. I cannot possibly act against him in
the manner you propose. You must see that; and for my wishes, he
respects them less than your son regards yours."
M. de Clan rose, trembling a little on his legs, and glaring at me out
of his fierce old eyes. "Very well," he said, "it is as much as I
expected. Times are changed--and faiths--since the King of Navarre
slept under the same bush with Antoine St. Germain on the night before
Cahors! I wish you good-day, M. le Marquis."
I need not say that my sympathies were with him, and that I would have
helped him if I could; but in accordance with the maxim which I have
elsewhere explained, that he who places any consideration before the
King's service is not fit to conduct it, I did not see my way to thwart
M. de Saintonge in a matter so small. And the end justified my
inaction; for the duel, taking place that evening, resulted in nothing
worse than a serious, but not dangerous, wound which St. Mesmin,
fighting with the same fury as in the morning, contrived to inflict on
his opponent.
For some weeks after this I saw little of the young firebrand, though
from time to time he attended my receptions and invariably behaved to
me with a modesty which proved that he placed some bounds to his
presumption. I heard, moreover, that M. de Saintonge, in
acknowledgment of the triumph over the St. Germains which he had
afforded him, had taken him up; and that the connection between the
families being publicly avowed, the two were much together.
Judge of my surprise, therefore, when one day a little before
Christmas, M. de Saintonge sought me at the Arsenal during the
preparation of the plays and interludes--which were held there that
year--and, drawing me aside into the garden, broke into a furious
tirade against the young fellow.
"But," I said, in immense astonishment, "what is this? I thought that
he was a young man quite to your mind; and--"
"He is mad!" he answered.
"Mad?" I said.
"Yes, mad!" he repeated, striking the ground violently with his cane.
"Stark mad, M. de Rosny. He does not know himself! What do you
think--but it is inconceivable. He proposes to marry my daughter!
This penniless adventurer honours Mademoiselle de Saintonge by
proposing for her!"
"Pheugh!" I said. "That is serious."
"He--he! I don't think I shall ever get over it!" he answered.
"He has, of course, seen Mademoiselle?"