The Marquis de Kersaint, still without his coat, got up from the fallen stone. To him also a duel was sacramental, and bloodshed, at the risk of life, did serve, between gentlemen, to wash out enmity. To what degree, however, that stain was ineffaceable, they could hardly know then, for they were both moved, little as they showed it, by the near passage of the dark angel.
“Thank you, M. de Brencourt,” he said quietly. “Allow me to apologise, in my turn, for the blow I struck you—though I think you understand why I struck. I am quite willing to take your hand if you are willing to take mine; indeed, I was going to propose that, as neither of us after all is to remain permanently beside the Moulin-aux-Fées, we had better try, for the King’s sake, to forget, if we can, what has passed between us. I at least am content to try. I do not wish to change my second-in-command.”
“Nor I to change my leader!” cried the Comte, really shaken by the generosity which could forget his deliberate campaign of insults. He too held out his left hand, and they sealed the compact. Perhaps at the moment he almost forgot how much less complete the covenant was than the other imagined—forgot what he was holding back and meant to go on holding back. . . .
“And now,” he said, recovering himself, “if you insist on getting into that sleeve again.” He picked up the redingote. “It is a long way back—at least I fear you will find it so, de Kersaint.”
“I only wish it were longer,” said the Marquis, with a little frown. “They have such sharp ears, those young men of mine—I do not think the bone is broken after all. Help me into my coat, and lend me your arm, and I shall do very well.”
(2)
The Clos-aux-Grives at last, white in the moonlight, between the sparser trees of the forest’s verge. It was high time. But before the duellists were quite near enough to give the countersign to the sentry, whose challenge had just rung out, a figure from within the courtyard, shouting something to him, vaulted the low wall by the Chouan and raced towards them. So vehement was its haste that the two gentlemen stopped. It was then seen that the athlete was the Chevalier de la Vergne, in such a hurry that he had hardly time to pull himself up and to salute.
“I saw you coming, Monsieur le Marquis,” he exclaimed breathlessly. “There is great news—M. l’Abbé has come back! . . . What, are you hurt, sir!”
(“Damnation!” said the Comte de Brencourt under his breath.)
“Yes, a trifle,” returned the Marquis carelessly. “A stray Blue in the forest; nothing to worry about. Come, Comte, let us go and welcome the Abbé. This is indeed good news—if it means his success.” And, loosing the Comte’s arm, as much, perhaps, to show his ability to do so as because the Comte displayed a tendency to be rooted to the spot, he began to walk towards the entrance.