Toni’s vocabulary was not extensive and he hunted around in his mind for language to express the horror of what he was suffering, but he could only find the simplest words.
“Nicolas and Pierre—,” he said, “those scoundrels—have ordered me to kill you. They say if I don’t they will kill me and kill you afterward themselves.”
There was silence for a minute or two after this.
Paul knew very well that Toni was neither drunk nor crazy, and he grasped at once all that Toni meant. His face grew pale and his blond mustache twitched a little.
“So they want to put me out of the way—what for?”
“Because they think you are responsible for their being in trouble so much. They are desperate men, Paul.” Toni used Paul’s name unconsciously, but he was thinking then of Paul as he had known him years ago, an apple-cheeked boy who understood him and even understood Jacques.
Paul took his helmet off and let the cool breeze blow on his close-cropped sandy hair.
“Come, now,” he said, “tell me all about it—how it happened.”
“It is about Count Delorme,” said Toni, gasping between his sentences. “You know, Paul, I always was a coward about most things.”