CHAPTER XLIII
“You understand, monsieur?” said Grandjon-Larisse.
“Perfectly—and without the glove, monsieur le general,” answered Philip quietly. “Where shall my seconds wait upon you?” As he spoke he turned with a slight gesture towards Damour.
“In Paris, monsieur, if it please you.”
“I should have preferred it here, monsieur le general—but Paris, if it is your choice.”
“At 22, Rue de Mazarin, monsieur.” Then he made an elaborate bow to Philip. “I bid you good-day, monsieur.”
“Monseigneur, not monsieur,” Philip corrected. “They may deprive me of my duchy, but I am still Prince Philip d’Avranche. I may not be robbed of my adoption.”
There was something so steady, so infrangible in Philip’s composure now, that Grandjon-Larisse, who had come to challenge a great adventurer, a marauder of honour, found his furious contempt checked by some integral power resisting disdain. He intended to kill Philip—he was one of the most expert swordsmen in France—yet he was constrained to respect a composure not sangfroid and a firmness in misfortune not bravado. Philip was still the man who had valiantly commanded men; who had held of the high places of the earth. In whatever adventurous blood his purposes had been conceived, or his doubtful plans accomplished, he was still, stripped of power, a man to be reckoned with: resolute in his course once set upon, and impulsive towards good as towards evil. He was never so much worth respect as when, a dispossessed sovereign with an empty title, discountenanced by his order, disbarred his profession, he held himself ready to take whatever penalty now came.
In the presence of General Grandjon-Larisse, with whom was the might of righteous vengeance, he was the more distinguished figure. To Philip now there came the cold quiet of the sinner, great enough to rise above physical fear, proud enough to say to the world: “Come, I pay the debt I owe. We are quits. You have no favours to give, and I none to take. You have no pardon to grant, and I none to ask.”