“In my chest,” he replied. “I am simply dripping with blood. It has trickled down my legs into my boots. Very hot at first—and then very cold.”
The other looked at him curiously, and across his velvety eyes there passed that strange contraction which has been noted in the glance of the Vicomte d'Audierne.
“I have sent for a mattress,” he said. “That bullet must come out. A doctor is following me; he will be here on the instant.”
“One of your Jesuits?”
“Yes—one of my Jesuits.”
The Vicomte d'Audierne smiled and winced. He staggered a little, and clutched at the back of a chair. The other watched him without emotion.
“Why do you not sit down?” he suggested coldly. “There are none of your—People—here to be impressed.”
Again the Vicomte smiled.
“Yes,” he said smoothly, “we work on different lines, do we not? I wonder which of us has dirtied his hands the most. Which of the two—the two fools who quarrelled about a woman. Ha? And she married a third—a dolt. Thus are they made—these women!”
“And yet,” said the Jesuit, “you have not forgotten.”