"You were rude to Mademoiselle de Vaudemont." Victor suddenly refused to conciliate.
"Rude? Well, yes; I admit that. My word of honor, I could not contain myself at the sound of her voice."
"Or of madame's?" shrewdly.
"Or of madame's." The vicomte smoothed his mustache.
Their eyes met, and the flame in the vicomte's disquieted Victor, courageous though he was.
"It seems to me," said the vicomte, "that you have been needlessly beating about the bush. Why did you not say to me, 'Monsieur, you love Madame de Brissac. I love her also. The world is too small for both of us?'"
"I depended upon your keen sense," replied Victor.
"I am almost tempted to favor you. I could use a short rapier."
"Good!" said Victor. "There is plenty of room. I have not killed a man since this year Thursday."
"And having killed me," replied the vicomte, rising, and there was a smile on his lips, "you would be forced to seek out Monsieur le Comte d'Hérouville, a man of devastated estates and violent temper, the roughest swordsman since Crillon's time; D'Hérouville, whose greed is as great and fierce as his love. Have you thought of him, my poet? Ah well, something tells me that the time is not far distant when we shall be rushing at each other's throats. For the present, a truce. You love madame; so do I. She is free. We are all young. Win her, if you can, and I will step aside. But until you win her … I wish you good night. I am going for a tramp along the sea-walls. I beg of you not to follow."