“To-morrow, rather,” said De Chatillon, “if you will take the trouble of coming so far as the gates of Charenton.”
“How can you doubt it, sir? For the pleasure of a meeting with you I would go to the end of the world.”
“Very well, to-morrow, sir.”
“I shall rely on it. Are you going to rejoin your cardinal? Swear first, on your honor, not to inform him of our return.”
“Conditions?”
“Why not?”
“Because it is for victors to make conditions, and you are not yet victors, gentlemen.”
“Then let us draw on the spot. It is all one to us—to us who do not command to-morrow’s expedition.”
Chatillon and Flamarens looked at each other. There was such irony in the words and in the bearing of Aramis that the duke had great difficulty in bridling his anger, but at a word from Flamarens he restrained himself and contented himself with saying:
“You promise, sir—that’s agreed—that I shall find you to-morrow at Charenton?”