“And where is this message from?” he continued.
“From Marsan, Monsieur.”
“And you are?”
“Paul de Marsan, Monsieur.”
He looked at me yet a moment, his eyes glittering behind their veil of lashes like snakes in ambush.
“Very well,” he said abruptly. “Give me this message. I will deliver it to M. le Comte.”
And he held out his hand.
“Impossible, Monsieur,” I answered. “I was instructed to deliver it only to M. le Comte himself.”
Again he paused to look me up and down, and I saw the hot color of the south leap to his cheeks.
“Perhaps you do not know that I am the Vicomte d’Aurilly,” he sneered at last.