The sun came greenly through the beautiful vine leaves behind the Imperialist's severe, upright head. Aymar looked him in the face and said, "I must tell you first who I am. You shall think it strange of me to seek you out like this, but I will not keep you long. My name is La Rocheterie."
The dry, rough-edged vine leaves seemed to twitter in the little breeze; there was no other sound for a few seconds. Aymar did not see Colonel Richard's face; it had vanished suddenly in a light green mist. But he heard his voice saying curtly, "We might as well sit down, Monsieur de la Rocheterie," and in a moment more he saw that the Imperialist had done so. But he himself remained on his feet.
"It is not worth it, Monsieur. I have only to say——"
He broke off short. A paralyzing idea had just occurred to him. He was going to ask a favour of this man, who must despise him from his heart, who might not improbably have him thrown out of the place altogether. And surely it would seem to the Bonapartist that he would never dare to do such a thing had he not believed himself to have a claim on his opponent . . . for the victory he had put within his grasp?
Even the clear vine leaves vanished this time. He felt some, however, in his left hand. . . . And once more he heard Colonel Richard's voice saying, "I think, Monsieur de la Rocheterie, that if we are to conduct this interview to any purpose, you had better sit down!"
And to this, lest the whole conversation should continue in this curious manner, with a person whom one heard but could not see, Aymar's brain assented. He found himself sitting on the opposite bench, the table between them, and in his left hand two vine leaves and a portion of a third. He did not know how they had come there.
"That is better," said the Bonapartist, looking at him very hard indeed. He had eyes like cold, clear water—eyes that would make short work of treachery. "Well, what is it that you were going to say?"
The voice, the eyes, steadied Aymar. He began again and his own voice was as cold as the other's.
"The letter addressed to me which was brought to you, Monsieur, at the Cheval Blanc near Saint-Goazec on the night of the 27th of April——"
"—Excuse me!" broke in the Imperialist, leaning forward, "but if you have come to tell me that that letter never really came from you . . ." He paused for a second, and Aymar went on quickly, "That was not in the least my intention. If my messenger on that occasion tried to take on himself any responsibility he was quite unjustified. I alone was responsible for sending the letter."