"Monsieur, I know it is hard to credit. I have been a bad son to you,
unloving, rebellious, insolent. We quarrelled; I spoke bitter words. But
I am no ruffian. I am a St. Quentin. Had you had me whipped from the
house, still would I never have raised hand against you. I knew nothing
of the plot. Félix told you I was in it--small blame to him. But he was
wrong. I knew naught of it."
Had he been content to rest his case here, I think Monsieur could not
but have believed his innocence on his bare word. The stones in the
pavement must have known that he was uttering truth. But he in his
eagerness paused for no answer, but went on to stun Monsieur with
statements new and amazing to his ear.
"My cousin Grammont--who is dead--was in the plot, and his lackey
Pontou, and Martin the clerk; but the contriver was Lucas."
"Lucas?"
"Lucas," continued M. Étienne. "Or, to give him his true title, Paul de
Lorraine, son of Henri de Guise."
"But that is impossible" Monsieur cried, stupefied.
"It is impossible, but it is true. He is a Lorraine--Mayenne's nephew,
and for years Mayenne's spy. He came to you to kill you--for that
object pure and simple. Last spring, before he came to you, he was here
in Paris with Mayenne, making terms for your murder. He is no Huguenot,
no Kingsman. He is Mayenne's henchman, son to Guise himself."
"And how long have you known this?" asked Monsieur.
"Since this morning." Then, as the import of the question struck him, he
fell back with a groan. "Ah, Monsieur, if you can ask that, I have no
more to say. It is useless." He turned away into the darkness.
That they should part thus was too miserable to be endured. I was sure
Monsieur's question was no accusation, but the groping of bewilderment.
"M. Étienne, stop!" I commanded. "Monsieur, it is the truth. Indeed it
is the truth. He is innocent, and Lucas _is_ a Guise. Monsieur, you must
listen to me. M. Étienne, you must wait. I stirred up the whole trouble
with my story to you, Monsieur, and I take it back. I believed I was
telling the truth. I was wrong. When I left you, I went straight back to
the Rue Coupejarrets to kill your son--your murderer, I thought. And
there I found Grammont and Lucas side by side. We thought them sworn
foes: they were hand in glove. They came at me to end me because I had
told, and M. Étienne saved me. Lucas mocked him to his face because he
had been tricked; Lucas bragged that it was his own scheme--that M.
Étienne was his dupe. Vigo will tell you. Vigo heard him. His scheme
was to saddle M. Étienne with your murder. He was tricked. He believed
what he told me--that the thing was a duel between Lucas and Grammont.
You must believe it, Monsieur!"
M. Étienne, who had actually obeyed me,--me, his lackey,--turned to his
father once again.
"Monsieur, if you cannot believe me, believe Félix. You believed him
when he took away my good name. Believe him now when he restores it."
"Nay," Monsieur cried; "I believe thee, Étienne."
And he took his son in his arms.