“As you please,” rejoined Chauvelin drily. “Shall we throw again?”
A murmur of merriment had accompanied this brief colloquy between the adversaries, and Blakeney's bland sallies were received with shouts of laughter. Now the dice rattled again and once more the two men threw.
“'Tis yours this time, Monsieur Chauvelin,” said Blakeney, after a rapid glance at the dice. “See how evenly Chance favours us both. Mine, the choice of place... admirably done you'll confess.... Now yours the choice of time. I wait upon your pleasure, sir.... The southern ramparts at Boulogne—when?”
“The fourth day from this, sir, at the hour when the Cathedral bell chimes the evening Angelus,” came Chauvelin's ready reply.
“Nay! but methought that your demmed government had abolished Cathedrals, and bells and chimes.... The people of France have now to go to hell their own way... for the way to heaven has been barred by the National Convention.... Is that not so?... Methought the Angelus was forbidden to be rung.”
“Not at Boulogne, I think, Sir Percy,” retorted Chauvelin drily, “and I'll pledge you my word that the evening Angelus shall be rung that night.”
“At what hour is that, sir?”
“One hour after sundown.”
“But why four days after this? Why not two or three?”
“I might have asked, why the southern ramparts, Sir Percy; why not the western? I chose the fourth day—does it not suit you?” asked Chauvelin ironically.