MONSIEUR WAITS UPON A LADY
Mornay had completely recovered his good spirits. He tossed his night-robe to Vigot and snapped his fingers.
“Mais, monsieur,” he smiled. “’Tis an exercise so exhilarating.”
“D—n it, man, ’tis no time for jesting,” growled the Irishman, rising. “The post from France to-day says ye are to be put in the Bastile or have your head chopped off; in London ye’re a fugitive from justice for killing; and, lastly, yer good friend Charles has turned a cold shoulder on ye. And ye talk of exhilaration!” Cornbury’s disgust was illimitable.
Mornay dusted a speck from his sleeve and smiled gayly. “It is not every day, my good Cornbury, that a man may become possessed of a family, a fortune, and, ma foi, such a beautiful, scornful she-cousin—”
“Zoons, man! How can ye prove it without the papers? The mere word ‘D’Añasco’ will not open their ears or their hearts. I believe it, but who else would?”
“I can prove that I am the boy Ruiz, I tell you.”
49
