The Marquis ran a lace handkerchief along his blade to wipe it. As he let the dainty fabric fall, he explained himself. “He had, as I told him, a too dangerous gift of eloquence.”
And he turned away, leaving completest understanding with Andre-Louis. Still supporting the limp, draining body, the young man called to him.
“Come back, you cowardly murderer, and make yourself quite safe by killing me too!”
The Marquis half turned, his face dark with anger. Then M. de Chabrillane set a restraining hand upon his arm. Although a party throughout to the deed, the Chevalier was a little appalled now that it was done. He had not the high stomach of M. de La Tour d’Azyr, and he was a good deal younger.
“Come away,” he said. “The lad is raving. They were friends.”
“You heard what he said?” quoth the Marquis.
“Nor can he, or you, or any man deny it,” flung back Andre-Louis. “Yourself, monsieur, you made confession when you gave me now the reason why you killed him. You did it because you feared him.”
“If that were true—what, then?” asked the great gentleman.
“Do you ask? Do you understand of life and humanity nothing but how to wear a coat and dress your hair—oh, yes, and to handle weapons against boys and priests? Have you no mind to think, no soul into which you can turn its vision? Must you be told that it is a coward’s part to kill the thing he fears, and doubly a coward’s part to kill in this way? Had you stabbed him in the back with a knife, you would have shown the courage of your vileness. It would have been a vileness undisguised. But you feared the consequences of that, powerful as you are; and so you shelter your cowardice under the pretext of a duel.”
The Marquis shook off his cousin’s hand, and took a step forward, holding now his sword like a whip. But again the Chevalier caught and held him.