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Updated: May 31, 2025
I have known good, ill, and merely middling among them, the cunning and the simple, the learned and the utterly ignorant, and by the Holy Iron! honesty and faith are the best virtues in the lot of them. They all like flattery, I know " "A dead man and a stupid woman are the only ones who do not. Jamais beau parler riecorcha le langue!" said Montaiglon.
"Ah!" said he, "it is not, mademoiselle, that the bats alone are blind; here is a very blind Montaiglon. I implore your pardon, M. le Baron. It is good to be frank, though it is sometimes unpleasant, and I must plead guilty to an imbecile misapprehension." Doom flushed, and took the proffered hand. "My good Montaiglon," said he, "I'm the most shamefaced man this day in the shire of Argyll.
"Ah!" said he, lamely, "Mungo's been at his dusting again," and he tried to restore the easiness of the conversation that the incident had so strangely marred. But Montaiglon could not so speedily restore his equanimity. For the unknown who had so unceremoniously brushed against him on the dark stair had been attired in tartan clothes.
"What for did ye open the door, Mungo?" asked Doom, not the Doom of doleful days, of melancholy evenings of study and of sour memories, not the done man, but one alert and eager, a soldier, in the poise of his body, the set of his limbs, the spirit of his eye. "Here's a new man!" thought Montaiglon, silently regarding him. "Devilry appears to have a marvellous power of stimulation."
"I think you would be best to have been coming to the town when the Macfarlanes attacked you, killed your horse, and chased you into my place. That's the most plausible story we can tell, and it has the virtue of being true in every particular, without betraying that Bethune or friendship for myself was in any part of it." "I can leave it all to your astuteness," said Montaiglon.
The Chamberlain laughed, but still betrayed a little confusion: Mrs. Petullo wondered at the anger of his eyes, and a moment later launched upon an abstracted minuet with Montaiglon.
In a couple of days he had fallen desperately in love with Olivia a precipitation that might seem ridiculous in any man of the world who was not a Montaiglon satiated by acquaintance with scores of Dame Stratagems, fair intrigueuses and puppets without hearts below their modish bodices.
Montaiglon seized him as he fled; the skirt of his coat dragged through his hands, and left him with a button. He dropped it with a cry, and turned in the darkness to find himself more frightfully menaced than before. This time the plunge of the dirk was actual; he felt it sear his side like a hot iron, and caught the wrist that held it only in time to check a second blow.
"Your Grace saved me a faux pas there, for Montaiglon is not what I fancied at all." "You were ever the dubious gentleman, Sim," laughed his Grace. "And what if I may take the liberty seeks our excellent and impeccable Gaul so far west?" "He's a wine merchant," said the Chamberlain, and at that the Duke laughed.
Birds twittered, and shook the snow from the shrubbery of the Duke's garden; the river cried below the arches, but not loud enough to drown the sound of stumbling steps, and Montaiglon threw a glance in the direction whence they came, even at the risk of being spitted on his opponent's weapon. He parried a thrust in quarte and cried, "Stop! stop! Remettez-vous, monsieur! Here comes a woman."
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