Your family, Monsieur de Beaulieu, is very well in its way; but if you
sprung from Charlemagne[7], you should not refuse the hand of a
Maletroit with impunity--not if she had been as common as the Paris
road--not if she was as hideous as the gargoyle over my door. Neither
my niece nor you, nor my own private feelings, move me at all in this
matter. The honor of my house has been compromised; I believe you to
be the guilty person, at least you are now in the secret; and you can
hardly wonder if I request you to wipe out the stain. If you will not,
your blood be on your own head! It will be no great satisfaction to me
to have your interesting relics kicking their heels in the breeze
below my windows, but half a loaf is better than no bread, and if I
cannot cure the dishonor, I shall at least stop the scandal."
There was a pause.
"I believe there are other ways of settling such imbroglios among
gentlemen," said Denis. "You wear a sword, and I hear you have used it
with distinction."
The Sire de Maletroit made a signal to the chaplain, who crossed the
room with long silent strides and raised the arras over the third of
the three doors. It was only a moment before he let it fall again; but
Denis had time to see a dusky passage full of armed men.
"When I was a little younger, I should have been delighted to honor
you, Monsieur de Beaulieu," said Sire Alain: "but I am now too old.
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