M. de Kercadiou moistened his lips.
“With whom is this engagement?” he asked in a voice that by an effort he contrived to render steady.
M. de La Tour d’Azyr bowed his handsome head, his eyes upon the gleaming parquetry of the floor. “With myself,” he answered quietly, conscious already with a tightening of the heart that his answer must sow dismay. He caught the sound of a faint outcry from Aline; he saw the sudden recoil of M. de Kercadiou. And then he plunged headlong into the explanation that he deemed necessary.
“In view of his relations with you, M. de Kercadiou, and because of my deep regard for you, I did my best to avoid this, even though as you will understand the death of my dear friend and cousin Chabrillane seemed to summon me to action, even though I knew that my circumspection was becoming matter for criticism among my friends. But yesterday this unbridled young man made further restraint impossible to me. He provoked me deliberately and publicly. He put upon me the very grossest affront, and . . . to-morrow morning in the Bois . . . we meet.”
He faltered a little at the end, fully conscious of the hostile atmosphere in which he suddenly found himself. Hostility from M. de Kercadiou, the latter’s earlier change of manner had already led him to expect; the hostility of mademoiselle came more in the nature of a surprise.
He began to understand what difficulties the course to which he was committed must raise up for him. A fresh obstacle was to be flung across the path which he had just cleared, as he imagined. Yet his pride and his sense of the justice due to be done admitted of no weakening.
In bitterness he realized now, as he looked from uncle to niece — his glance, usually so direct and bold, now oddly furtive — that though to-morrow he might kill Andre–Louis, yet even by his death Andre–Louis would take vengeance upon him. He had exaggerated nothing in reaching the conclusion that this Andre–Louis Moreau was the evil genius of his life. He saw now that do what he would, kill him even though he might, he could never conquer him. The last word would always be with Andre–Louis Moreau. In bitterness, in rage, and in humiliation — a thing almost unknown to him — did he realize it, and the realization steeled his purpose for all that he perceived its futility.
Outwardly he showed himself calm and self-contained, properly suggesting a man regretfully accepting the inevitable. It would have been as impossible to find fault with his bearing as to attempt to turn him from the matter to which he was committed. And so M. de Kercadiou perceived.
“My God!” was all that he said, scarcely above his breath, yet almost in a groan.
M. de La Tour d’Azyr did, as always, the thing that sensibility demanded of him. He took his leave. He understood that to linger where his news had produced such an effect would be impossible, indecent. So he departed, in a bitterness comparable only with his erstwhile optimism, the sweet fruit of hope turned to a thing of gall even as it touched his lips. Oh, yes; the last word, indeed, was with Andre–Louis Moreau — always!
Uncle and niece looked at each other as he passed out, and there was horror in the eyes of both. Aline’s pallor was deathly almost, and standing there now she wrung her hands as if in pain.
“Why did you not ask him — beg him . . . ” She broke off.
“To what end? He was in the right, and . . . and there are things one cannot ask; things it would be a useless humiliation to ask.” He sat down, groaning. “Oh, the poor boy — the poor, misguided boy.”
In the mind of neither, you see, was there any doubt of what must be the issue. The calm confidence in which La Tour d’Azyr had spoken compelled itself to be shared. He was no vainglorious boaster, and they knew of what a force as a swordsman he was generally accounted.
“What does humiliation matter? A life is at issue — Andre’s life.”
“I know. My God, don’t I know? And I would humiliate myself if by humiliating myself I could hope to prevail. But Azyr is a hard, relentless man, and . . . ”
Abruptly she left him.
She overtook the Marquis as he was in the act of stepping his carriage. He turned as she called, and bowed.
“Mademoiselle?”
At once he guessed her errand, tasted in anticipation the unparalleled bitterness of being compelled to refuse her. Yet at her invitation he stepped back into the cool of the hall.
In the middle of the floor of chequered marbles, black and white, stood a carved table of black oak. By this he halted, leaning lightly against it whilst she sat enthroned in the great crimson chair beside it.
“Monsieur, I cannot allow you so to depart,” she said. “You cannot realize, monsieur, what a blow would be dealt my uncle if . . . if evil, irrevocable evil were to overtake his godson to-morrow. The expressions that he used at first . . . ”
“Mademoiselle, I perceived their true value. Spare yourself. Believe me I am profoundly desolated by circumstances which I had not expected to find. You must believe me when I say that. It is all that I can say.”
“Must it really be all? Andre is very dear to his godfather.”
The pleading tone cut him like a knife; and then suddenly it aroused another emotion — an emotion which he realized to be utterly unworthy, an emotion which, in his overwhelming pride of race, seemed almost sullying, yet not to be repressed. He hesitated to give it utterance; hesitated even remotely to suggest so horrible a thing as that in a man of such lowly origin he might conceivably discover a rival. Yet that sudden pang of jealousy was stronger than his monstrous pride.
“And to you, mademoiselle? What is this Andre–Louis Moreau to you? You will pardon the question. But I desire clearly to understand.”
Watching her he beheld the scarlet stain that overspread her face. He read in it at first confusion, until the gleam of her blue eyes announced its source to lie in anger. That comforted him; since he had affronted her, he was reassured. It did not occur to him that the anger might have another source.
“Andre and I have been playmates from infancy. He is very dear to me, too; almost I regard him as a brother. Were I in need of help, and were my uncle not available, Andre would be the first man to whom I should turn. Are you sufficiently answered, monsieur? Or is there more of me you would desire revealed?”
He bit his lip. He was unnerved, he thought, this morning; otherwise the silly suspicion with which he had offended could never have occurred to him.
He bowed very low. “Mademoiselle, forgive that I should have troubled you with such a question. You have answered more fully than I could have hoped or wished.”
He said no more than that. He waited for her to resume. At a loss, she sat in silence awhile, a pucker on her white brow, her fingers nervously drumming on the table. At last she flung herself headlong against the impassive, polished front that he presented.
“I have come, monsieur, to beg you to put off this meeting.”
She saw the faint raising of his dark eyebrows, the faintly regretful smile that scarcely did more than tinge his fine lips, and she hurried on. “What honour can await you in such an engagement, monsieur?”
It was a shrewd thrust at the pride of race that she accounted his paramount sentiment, that had as often lured him into error as it had urged him into good.
“I do not seek honour in it, mademoiselle, but — I must say it — justice. The engagement, as I have explained, is not of my seeking. It has been thrust upon me, and in honour I cannot draw back.”
“Why, what dishonour would there be in sparing him? Surely, monsieur, none would