Gaston watched his enemy for awhile as he now settled himself at the table, with Jean Marie ministering obsequiously to his wants. Soon mine host had arranged everything to his guest's liking, had placed a dish of stewed veal before him, a bottle of wine, some nice fresh bread, then retired walking backwards, so wonderfully deferential was he to the man who dealt with gold as others would with tin.
One grim thought had now risen in Stainville's mind, the revival of a memory, half-faded: an insult, a challenge, refused by that man, who had thwarted him!
A coward? Eh?
These English would not fight! 'twas well known; in battle, yes! but not in single combat, not in a meeting 'twixt gentlemen, after a heady bottle of wine when tempers wax hot, and swords skip almost of themselves out of the scabbard.
Aye! he would ride a hundred and eighty leagues, to frustrate a plan, or nathless to dip into the well-filled coffers of the Jacobite Alliance—such things were possible—but he would not fight!
Gaston hugged the thought! it was grim but delicious! revenge, bitter, awful, complete revenge was there, quite easy of accomplishment. Fortune was lost to him, but not revenge! Not before his hand had struck the cheek of his enemy.
This was his right. No one could blame him. Not even the King, sworn foe of duelling though he might profess to be.
A long laugh now broke from Gaston's burning throat! Was it not all ridiculous, senseless, and puerile?
His Majesty the King, Pompadour, the Duc d'Aumont, Prime Minister of France, and he himself, Gaston de Stainville, the most ruthlessly ambitious man in the kingdom, all fooled, stupidly fooled and tricked by that man, who was too great a coward to meet the rival whom he had insulted.
At Gaston's laugh Eglinton turned to look in his direction, and his eyes met those of de Mortémar fixed intently upon him.