Madame had covered her eyes.  The Chevalier, however, had watched the contest, but without any sign of emotion on his face.  He had nothing to do but wait.  He had gained some advantage; one of these men would be tired.

The vicomte came within a yard of the hut, and stopped.  He smiled evilly and twisted his mustache.  By the attitude of the men, the Chevalier could see that the vicomte had outplanned D’Herouville.

“Chevalier,” the vicomte began softly, “for me this is the hour of hours.  You will never learn who your mother was.  Gabrielle, sweet one with the shadowful eyes, you once asked me why this fellow left France.  I will tell you.  His father is Monsieur le Marquis de Perigny, but his mother . . . who can say as to that?”

He could see the horror gather and grow in madame’s eyes, but he misinterpreted it.

“Gabrielle, Gabrielle Diane de Brissac, Montbazon that was, it has been a long chase.  Offer me your congratulations.  ’Twas I who made you so charming a widow.  That grey cloak!  It has played the very devil with us all.  The tailor who made it must have sprinkled it with the devil’s holy water.  I wanted only that paper, but the old fool made me fight for it.  Monsieur, but for me you would still have lorded it in France.  ’Twas the cloak that brought you to Rochelle, induced your paternal parent to declare your illegitimacy, made you wind up the night by flaunting abroad your spotted ticket.”

“I am waiting for you,” suggested the Chevalier.

“Presently.  But what a fine comedy it has been!  My faith, it was your poet who had the instinct.  Somehow he saw vaguely through the screen, but he could not join the separate parts.  It was all droll, my word for it, when I paid you those fifty pistoles that night.  But see! those who stand in my path go out of it one by one; De Brissac, D’Herouville, and now comes your turn.  D’Herouville planned it well; but it is the old story of the monkey and the cat and the chestnuts in the fire.  You shall wear a crown of agony, Chevalier.  The waiting has been worth while.  We shall not kill you; we shall only crucify your heart . . . by the way of possessing madame.”

“Over my body!” The Chevalier cared nothing for these vile insults.  He knew the history of his birth; he knew that he was Madame la Marquise’s son.  He refused to allow these taunts to affect his calm as the vicomte had hoped they would.  If he passed through this crisis, he would tell madame the truth. . . .  De Brissac!  A blur swept across his eyes, and for a moment his hand shook.  De Brissac, De Montbazon!  It came to him now, the truth of all this coquetry, this fast and loose, this dangling of promises:  the vengeance of a woman’s vanity.  The irony of this moment, the stinging, bitter irony!

The vicomte never knew how close victory was to him in that moment.

“Monsieur le Comte,” said madame, “fight bravely, and God be with you.  As for me, be easy; Monsieur le Vicomte will not so much as put a finger on me while I live.”  She drew a knife from the bosom of her blouse and held it in her hand significantly.