The dark, keen eyes conned him more searchingly.
“Well? Andre-Louis what?”
“Just Andre-Louis. Louis is my surname.”
“Oh! An odd surname. You come from Brittany by your accent. Why did you leave it?”
“To save my skin,” he answered, without reflecting. And then made haste to cover the blunder. “I have an enemy,” he explained.
M. des Amis frowned, stroking his square chin. “You ran away?”
“You may say so.
“A coward, eh?”
“I don’t think so.” And then he lied romantically. Surely a man who lived by the sword should have a weakness for the romantic. “You see, my enemy is a swordsman of great strength—the best blade in the province, if not the best blade in France. That is his repute. I thought I would come to Paris to learn something of the art, and then go back and kill him. That, to be frank, is why your notice attracted me. You see, I have not the means to take lessons otherwise. I thought to find work here in the law. But I have failed. There are too many lawyers in Paris as it is, and whilst waiting I have consumed the little money that I had, so that... so that, enfin, your notice seemed to me something to which a special providence had directed me.”
M. des Amis gripped him by the shoulders, and looked into his face.