The other hesitated. “And if I refuse to tell you?”
“Oh, in that case,” retorted Louis, “I shall know that you are afraid.”
De Bercy was stung. “Very well, then,” he said, coming forward with a little laugh, “since you insist, I will tell you what came into my mind. It occurred to me—a foolish thought, no doubt, but how can one help one’s thoughts?—it occurred to me that you must find your cousin’s visit extremely . . . inconvenient . . . for the progress of your very pretty little idyll with . . . his charming bride that is to be.”
The words, slow, gentle, and distinct, fell into the stillness with the effect of a stone dropped into quiet water. The Vicomte went as pale as death.
“You will answer to me to-morrow morning for that lie,” he said, in a voice sufficiently steady to contrast oddly with his blazing eyes, and added, with the most concentrated venom and contempt: “You hound!”
De Bercy’s hand went to the place where his hilt should have been, and as the dusky red mounted slowly to his cheek the strained silence broke into protest and intervention.
CHAPTER VI
SOME RESULTS OF EARLY RISING
“Pendant qu’aux lueurs du matin
La lame à la lame est croisée,
Dans l’herbe humide et dans le thym