"Let me make you and this gentleman known to each other first," he began. "M. de St. Four of the régiment d'Hector, M. le Chevalier de la Vire——"
The name died on his lips. La Vireville's eyes were not on him at all, but on the stranger, yet the look he wore was enough to slay instantly any attempt at introduction. The naked hatred and contempt on his face seemed to have frozen equally the other man and himself; then, after two or three seconds of an intolerable silence, he turned without a word and walked straight out of the cottage.
The two other witnesses of this scene were also stricken dumb. M. de St. Four was the first to recover himself. He gave an uneasy laugh. De Flavigny, overwhelmed by the suddenness and inexplicability of the incident, began to stammer out some apology.
"It is of no consequence, Monsieur," said St. Four, shrugging his shoulders. "Your friend does not wish to know me, that is all." And he made an attempt to resume their conversation where it had been broken off, but, as was hardly surprising, without any marked success, and shortly afterwards he took his leave. De Flavigny also, as soon as he could, made an excuse to the others, and went in search of his friend.
(3)
La Vireville was not at his quarters, and it took some half-hour's search before the Marquis found him, sitting on a rock that faced the Atlantic on the side of the 'mer sauvage,' his chin on his clenched fists, staring out to sea.
At the sound of a step he turned round, and showed de Flavigny a face no longer, at least, like the Medusa's mask.
"Have you come for an apology, René? I owe you one, I admit."
"No; it is for me to apologise," said the Marquis, stepping on to the rock. "But I did not know——"
"Of course you did not. How could you? Fate is pleased to be humorous, but you could not realise to what degree. It was something of a pity that you could not." He laughed, a hard, mirthless laugh, and tearing off a piece of dried seaweed from the rock on which he sat, cast it towards the waves. The wind carried it away.