“Monsieur de Saumaise, I have seen for some months that you have been nourishing a secret antipathy to me.  Be frank enough to explain why our admiration is not mutual.”  The vicomte seated himself on a bench, and threw his scabbard across his knees.

“Since you have put the question frankly I will answer frankly.  For some time I have distrusted you.  What was to be your gain in joining the conspiracy?”

“And yours?” quietly.  “I think we both overlooked that part of the contract.  Proceed.”

“Well, I distrust you at this moment, for I know not what your purpose is to speak of affronts and refuse to let me give satisfaction.  I distrust and dislike you for the manner in which you approached the Chevalier tonight.  There was in your words a biting sarcasm and contempt which, he in his trouble did not grasp.  And let me tell you, Monsieur, if you ever dare mention publicly the Chevalier’s misfortune, I shall not wait for you to draw your sword.”

The vicomte swung about his scabbard and began lightly to tap the floor with it.  Here and there a cinder rose in dust.  The vicomte’s face was grave and thoughtful.  “You have rendered my simple words into a Greek chorus.  That is like you poets; you are super-sensitive; you misconstrue commonplaces; you magnify the simple.  I am truly sorry for the Chevalier.  Now there’s a man.  He is superb with the rapier, light and quick as a cat; a daredevil, who had not his match in Paris.  Free with his money, a famous drinker, and never an enemy.  Yes, I will apologize for my bad taste in approaching him to-night.  I should have waited till morning.”

“You were rude to Mademoiselle de Vaudemont.”  Victor suddenly refused to conciliate.

“Rude?  Well, yes; I admit that.  My word of honor, I could not contain myself at the sound of her voice.”

“Or of madame’s?” shrewdly.

“Or of madame’s.”  The vicomte smoothed his mustache.

Their eyes met, and the flame in the vicomte’s disquieted Victor, courageous though he was.

“It seems to me,” said the vicomte, “that you have been needlessly beating about the bush.  Why did you not say to me, ’Monsieur, you love Madame de Brissac.  I love her also.  The world is too small for both of us?’”

“I depended upon your keen sense,” replied Victor.

“I am almost tempted to favor you.  I could use a short rapier.”

“Good!” said Victor.  “There is plenty of room.  I have not killed a man since this year Thursday.”

“And having killed me,” replied the vicomte, rising, and there was a smile on his lips, “you would be forced to seek out Monsieur le Comte d’Herouville, a man of devastated estates and violent temper, the roughest swordsman since Crillon’s time; D’Herouville, whose greed is as great and fierce as his love.  Have you thought of him, my poet?  Ah well, something tells me that the time is not far distant when we shall be rushing at each other’s throats.  For the present, a truce.  You love madame; so do I. She is free.  We are all young.  Win her, if you can, and I will step aside.  But until you win her . . .  I wish you good night.  I am going for a tramp along the sea-walls.  I beg of you not to follow.”