“To the Theatre Feydau,” said he.

The footman vanished and the berline rolled on.  M. de Chabrillane laughed cynically.

“I’ll trouble you not to be amused,” snapped the Marquis.  “You don’t understand.”  Thereafter he explained himself.  It was a rare condescension in him.  But, then, he could not bear to be misunderstood in such a matter.  Chabrillane grew serious in reflection of the Marquis’ extreme seriousness.

“Why not write?” he suggested.  “Myself, I confess that I should find it easier.”

Nothing could better have revealed M. le Marquis’ state of mind than his answer.

“Letters are liable both to miscarriage and to misconstruction.  Two risks I will not run.  If she did not answer, I should never know which had been incurred.  And I shall have no peace of mind until I know that I have set a term to this affair.  The berline can wait while we are at the theatre.  We will go on afterwards.  We will travel all night if necessary.”

“Peste!” said M. de Chabrillane with a grimace.  But that was all.

The great travelling carriage drew up at the lighted portals of the Feydau, and M. le Marquis stepped out.  He entered the theatre with Chabrillane, all unconsciously to deliver himself into the hands of Andre-Louis.

Andre-Louis was in a state of exasperation produced by Climene’s long absence from Nantes in the company of M. le Marquis, and fed by the unspeakable complacency with which M. Binet regarded that event of quite unmistakable import.

However much he might affect the frame of mind of the stoics, and seek to judge with a complete detachment, in the heart and soul of him Andre-Louis was tormented and revolted.  It was not Climene he blamed.  He had been mistaken in her.  She was just a poor weak vessel driven helplessly by the first breath, however foul, that promised her advancement.  She suffered from the plague of greed; and he congratulated himself upon having discovered it before making her his wife.  He felt for her now nothing but a deal of pity and some contempt.  The pity was begotten of the love she had lately inspired in him.  It might be likened to the dregs of love, all that remained after the potent wine of it had been drained off.  His anger he reserved for her father and her seducer.

The thoughts that were stirring in him on that Monday morning, when it was discovered that Climene had not yet returned from her excursion of the previous day in the coach of M. le Marquis, were already wicked enough without the spurring they received from the distraught Leandre.

Hitherto the attitude of each of these men towards the other had been one of mutual contempt.  The phenomenon has frequently been observed in like cases.  Now, what appeared to be a common misfortune brought them into a sort of alliance.  So, at least, it seemed to Leandre when he went in quest of Andre-Louis, who with apparent unconcern was smoking a pipe upon the quay immediately facing the inn.