As I stood up, booted and ready to descend, there came a gentle tap at my door, and, in answer to my “Enter,” there stood before me a very dainty and foppish figure. I stared hard at the effeminate face and the long fair locks of my visitor, thinking that I had become the dupe of my eyes.
“M. de Vilmorin!” I murmured in astonishment, as he came forward, having closed the door. “You here?”
In answer, he bowed and greeted me with cold ceremoniousness.
“I have been in Blois since yesterday, Monsieur.”
“In truth I might have guessed it, Vicomte. Your visit flatters me, for, of course, I take it, you are come to pay me your respects,” I said ironically. “A glass of wine, Vicomte?”
“A thousand thanks, Monsieur—no,” he answered coldly in his mincing tones. “It is concerning your affair with M. le Marquis de St. Auban that I am come.” And drawing forth a dainty kerchief, which filled the room with the scent of ambregris, he tapped his lips with it affectedly.
“Do you come as friend or—in some other capacity?”
“I come as mediator.”
“Mediator!” I echoed, and my brow grew dark. “Sdeath! Has St. Auban's courage lasted just so long as the sting of my whip?”
He raised his eyebrows after a supercilious fashion that made me thirst to strike the chair from under him.
“You misapprehend me; M. de St. Auban has no desire to avert the duel. On the contrary, he will not rest until the affront you have put upon him be washed out—”
“It will be, I'll answer for it.”
“Your answer, sir, is characteristic of a fanfarron. He who promises most does not always fulfil most.”
I stared at him in amazement.
“Shall I promise you something, Vicomte? Mortdieu! If you seek to pick a quarrel with me—”
“God forbid!” he ejaculated, turning colour. And his suddenly awakened apprehensions swept aside the affectation that hitherto had marked his speech and manner.
“Then, Monsieur, be brief and state the sum of this mediation.”
“It is this, Monsieur. In the heat of the moment, M. le Marquis gave you, in the hearing of half a score of people, an assignation for to-morrow morning. News of the affair will spread rapidly through Blois, and it is likely there will be no lack of spectators on the green to witness the encounter. Therefore, as my friend thinks this will be as unpalatable to you as it is to him, he has sent me to suggest a fresh rendezvous.”
“Pooh, sir,” I answered lightly. “I care not, for myself, who comes. I am accustomed to a crowd. Still, since M. de St. Auban finds it discomposing, let us arrange otherwise.”
“There is yet another point. M. de St. Auban spoke to you, I believe, of an officer who is coming hither charged with your arrest. It is probable that he may reach Blois before morning, so that the Marquis thinks that to make certain you might consent to meet him to-night.”
“Ma foi. St. Auban is indeed in earnest then! Convey to him my expressions of admiration at this suddenly awakened courage. Be good enough, Vicomte, to name the rendezvous.”
“Do you know the chapel of St. Sulpice des Reaux?”
“What! Beyond the Loire?”
“Precisely, Monsieur. About a league from Chambord by the river side.”
“I can find the place.”
“Will you meet us there at nine o'clock tonight?”
I looked askance at him.
“But why cross the river? This side affords many likely spots!”
“Very true, Monsieur. But the Marquis has business at Chambord this evening, after which there will be no reason—indeed, it will inconvenience him exceedingly—to return to Blois.”
“What!” I cried, more and more astonished. “St. Auban is leaving Blois?”
“This evening, sir.”
“But, voyons, Vicomte, why make an assignation in such a place and at night, when at any hour of the day I can meet the Marquis on this side, without suffering the inconvenience of crossing the river?”
“There will be a bright moon, well up by nine o'clock. Moreover, remember that you cannot, as you say, meet St. Auban on this side at any time he may appoint, since to-night or to-morrow the officer who is in search of you will arrive.”
I pondered for a moment. Then:
“M. le Vicomte,” I said, “in this matter of ground 't is I who have the first voice.”
“How so?”
“Because the Marquis is the affronted one.”
“Therefore he has a right to choose.”
“A right, yes. But that is not enough. The necessity to fight is on his side. His honour is hurt, not mine; I have whipped him; I am content. Now let him come to me.”
“Assuredly you will not be so ungenerous.”
“I do not care about journeying to Reaux to afford him satisfaction.”
“Does Monsieur fear anything?”
“Vicomte, you go too far!” I cried, my pride gaining the mastery. “Since it is asked of me—I will go.”
“M. le Marquis will be grateful to you.”
“A fig for his gratitude,” I answered, whereupon the Vicomte shrugged his narrow shoulders, and, his errand done, took his leave of me.
When he was gone I called Michelot, to tell him of the journey I must go that night, so that he might hold himself in readiness.
“Why—if Monsieur will pardon me,” quoth he, “do you go to meet the Marquis de St. Auban at St. Sulpice des Reaux by night?”
“Precisely what I asked Vilmorin. The Marquis desires it, and—what will you?—since I am going to kill the man, I can scarce do less than kill him on a spot of his own choosing.”
Michelot screwed up his face and scratched at his grey beard with his huge hand.
“Does no suspicion of foul play cross your mind, Monsieur?” he inquired timidly.
“Shame on you, Michelot,” I returned with some heat. “You do not yet understand the ways of gentlemen. Think you that M. de St. Auban would stoop to such a deed as that? He would be shamed for ever! Pooh, I would as soon suspect my Lord Cardinal of stealing the chalices from Nôtre Dame. Go, see to my horse. I am riding to Canaples.”
As I rode out towards the château I fell to thinking, and my thoughts turning to Vilmorin, I marvelled at the part he was playing in this little comedy of a cabal against Andrea de Mancini. His tastes and instincts were of the boudoir, the ante-chamber, and the table. He wore a sword because it was so ordained by fashion, and because the hilt was convenient for the display of a jewel or two. Certainly 't was not for utility that it hung beside him, and no man had ever seen it drawn. Nature had made him the most pitiable coward begotten. Why then should he involve himself in an affair