There was a second’s pause. The Marquis had not faced this difficulty. But of course some such reliance on a hazard was inevitable. “That would certainly be best,” he replied, looking steadily at its proposer. “There might, too, in that case, be only one shot to attract attention.”
“Quite so. How shall we settle it then?” asked the Comte, looking round the room.
“I have it,” said his opponent rather grimly, plunging a hand into a pocket. “A very simple way, if somewhat childish. You see this coin?” And he held out on his open palm a florin of the last issue of Louis XVI. “I will put my hands behind my back, and when I bring them closed into sight again you shall guess which of them contains the florin. If you guess rightly the first shot shall be yours—if you guess wrongly, mine. Are you content? Or would you prefer to hold the coin and I will guess? But I think the odds are just the same either way.”
“No, I am perfectly content that you should hold it,” replied his foe. So, standing there in the lamplight, the Marquis de Kersaint, commanding in chief for the King in Finistère, and in past days, when he bore another name, a very great gentleman indeed, put his hands behind him in the way that children have done for centuries, with not the fate of a game but his own, perhaps, hanging on the choice. In another moment he brought his closed fists in front of him again and looked at M. de Brencourt.
“I choose the left hand,” said the Comte.
M. de Kersaint opened his fingers. The silver effigy lay in his palm. His life was M. de Brencourt’s for the taking.
“Let us go, then,” he said, and turned down the lamp.