Thousands of years before, the ancient and forgotten race, drowned now in the mists of time, which had set up in those parts the long ranks of menhirs on the lande, had raised in the forest, over the remains of some dead chieftain, a great dolmen of granite. The death-chamber had long ago been rifled of bones and treasure, but it still stood, no different from what it had been for the last few hundred years, with ferns growing out of the cracks, and one of its supports prone, and an aged oak, immeasurably younger than itself, watching over it. And to this spot the two men, with passions no less primitive in their hearts, made their way; for on one side of the Moulin-aux-Fées, as the peasants called it, there was a little clearing.
It was true that M. de Kersaint had said, when pistols were named, that they must go further than this. But when they beheld the clearing, so inviting in the cold light that flooded it from a moon well over the tree tops, its suitability to the work they had in hand struck both of them so strongly that they agreed it was not necessary to go on. They had already put a considerable distance between them and the Clos-aux-Grives, and the little wind that walked the forest to-night had its light feet set in the opposite direction. They would risk the sound of a shot carrying back to the farm.
So, under the impassive gaze of the moon, which alone made their culpable proceedings possible at this hour, they measured out ten paces, first one of them, then the other, and set each a bit of dead branch to mark their respective positions. When this was done to their satisfaction they found themselves standing at the Comte’s mark examining their pistols for the last time.
“I shall not cock mine until you have fired, Monsieur,” announced the Marquis. “If there were to be an accident—such things have happened—you might think I had broken our compact.”
“I have no fear, Monsieur, of an accident of that kind,” returned de Brencourt, buttoning his coat up to the throat as he spoke. “However, as you please—But you are surely going to take off that white scarf of yours?” And as the Marquis looked down a little doubtfully at the white scarf of leadership round his waist, his opponent added hotly, “Good God, man, do you think I am going to stand up and fire at you unless you do? It would be murder! And your sword—the hilt catches the moonlight.” His own lay already at his feet.
“Very well,” agreed the Marquis, and began, almost, it seemed reluctantly, to detach the scarf. Having unwound it he paused with it in his hand.
“I have a request to make of you, Comte, before I go to my place,” he said, not altogether in the tone of one making a request. “The disagreement between us being a purely personal matter, I should be glad to have your word that you intend to respect my secret, whatever the result of our encounter?”
De Brencourt looked at him. It was some satisfaction to have him begging for terms—no, begging was certainly not the word for one who spoke like that.
“Yes, I promise you that,” he answered. “Whatever the result of our encounter, I will keep your secret as far as in me lies.”
“Thank you,” returned his adversary. And, throwing the white scarf from him, he turned and walked to his place.