The Comte looked grave. To do him justice, he had desired last night to kill, not to maim.
“The curious thing,” went on the priest, “is that the bullet is a pistol bullet, though last night M. de Kersaint distinctly said that his assailant shot him with a musket.”
“No, no! The man had a pistol,” said M. de Brencourt. “The Marquis was mistaken.”
“Obviously the man had a pistol,” agreed M. Chassin with serenity. “And not an army pistol either.”
The Comte met his look. “I should rather like to see that bullet,” he observed.
“No doubt,” thought the Abbé, twiddling it in his pocket. “But you are not going to.” And as he made no audible reply to this suggestion the enquirer had to let the subject drop.
“To turn to another question, Abbé,” he said, sitting down, “one has not yet had opportunity to congratulate you on your wonderful success. Allow me to do so now—most heartily.”
“You are generous, Monsieur le Comte,” said the priest, reaching round to place his breviary on the table, and not seeming to notice the proffered hand. “I thank you all the more. Another person ought by rights, however, to be included in your congratulations.”
“Who—not Roland de Céligny, surely?”
“No. His friend the concierge—your friend the concierge.”