His honour, he considered, demanded of him that he should at once deliver himself from a false position. La Binet would make a scene, of course; but he knew the proper specific to apply to hysteria of that nature. Money, after all, has its uses.
He pulled the cord. The carriage rolled to a standstill; a footman appeared at the door.
“To the Theatre Feydau,” said he.
The footman vanished and the berline rolled on. M. de Chabrillane laughed cynically.
“I’ll trouble you not to be amused,” snapped the Marquis. “You don’t understand.” Thereafter he explained himself. It was a rare condescension in him. But, then, he could not bear to be misunderstood in such a matter. Chabrillane grew serious in reflection of the Marquis’ extreme seriousness.
“Why not write?” he suggested. “Myself, I confess that I should find it easier.”
Nothing could better have revealed M. le Marquis’ state of mind than his answer.
“Letters are liable both to miscarriage and to misconstruction. Two risks I will not run. If she did not answer, I should never know which had been incurred. And I shall have no peace of mind until I know that I have set a term to this affair. The berline can wait while we are at the theatre. We will go on afterwards. We will travel all night if necessary.”
“Peste!” said M. de Chabrillane with a grimace. But that was all.
The great travelling carriage drew up at the lighted portals of the Feydau, and M. le Marquis stepped out. He entered the theatre with Chabrillane, all unconsciously to deliver himself into the hands of Andre-Louis.