M. de Kersaint nodded. “And the weapons? Swords, I presume.”
“I should prefer swords,” said his adversary. “Unfortunately”—he looked doubtfully at his right hand—“I am afraid that since the affair of la Croix-Fendue my wrist is still too stiff for anything so delicate as sword-play.”
“I had forgotten that. It must be pistols then. We shall have to go further off, that is all. Who is officer of the guard to-night?”
“Young La Vergne, I am afraid,” said the Comte.
The Marquis consulted his watch. “Shall we say in half an hour, then?” he suggested. “I have one or two matters that I must set in order, in case I fall; you doubtless the same. And if I fall, Comte, the command devolves naturally on you—at least till you hear from Edinburgh. Possibly you would be confirmed in the command of Finistère.” He spoke quite dispassionately, as if he were one of the seconds in whose hands, had not the circumstances been unusual, the conduct of the affair would have rested, and going to the little travelling safe began to unlock it. De Brencourt picked up some papers he had brought with him and went to the door.
“You have only to mark anything you wish ‘Private,’ and I give you my word it shall be burnt unread,” he observed. “I for my part shall rely on a similar consideration.” On him, too, rested the same forced composure.
“You may do so, Monsieur,” said the Marquis, without looking round. “There will be nothing private here, however, but a couple of letters that I am going to write now. You will find, on the other hand, a number of papers that will be essential to you if you have to take over the command. I will just see that they are in order.—Will you come back for me in half an hour, then?”
“Yes,” said the Comte, and, something impelling him to salute, perhaps for the last time, the leader he hoped to kill, he did so and went out.
The moment that the door closed behind his enemy Gaston de Trélan drew a long, almost a sobbing breath, and bending his head stood gripping the edge of the safe with both hands. He had had such a hard fight of it . . . and he was beaten after all. But the consuming rage that shook him left no room now for consciousness of defeat; and that rage, so overpowering for a moment or two as to make him feel physically faint, gave way in its turn to a savage gladness. For duty’s sake, and at almost unbearable cost to himself, he had tried to avoid this thing—but now that it had come, and he was going to settle the score, what place was there for anything but a measureless relief? Good God, because he commanded Finistère, was he to submit to a series of insults without parallel?
After a few minutes he loosed his hold of the safe, sat down at the table, pulled writing-materials towards him, and began to write rapidly. Thrusting his hand inside his shirt when he had finished, he brought out and slipped over his head something which hung round his neck on a ribbon. It was a white, gold-edged cross with a red medallion in the centre surrounded by a border of white and gold—the cross of the Order of Maria Theresa, never given save for personal valour in the field. Around the medallion ran the single word, “Fortitudini.” He placed the decoration in the letter, which he sealed and addressed to “Monsieur le Vicomte de Céligny,” writing underneath, “Not to be opened except in the event of my death.” This done, he wrote another which he addressed to the Abbé Chassin, and took them both to put in the safe. Standing by that receptacle he then sorted through some papers and locked it up again. Then he took his pistols from their case, oiled them very carefully, loaded them, and laid them on the table.