“I do not care about journeying to Reaux to afford him satisfaction.”
“Does Monsieur fear anything?”
“Vicomte, you go too far!” I cried, my pride gaining the mastery. “Since it is asked of me,—I will go.”
“M. le Marquis will be grateful to you.”
“A fig for his gratitude,” I answered, whereupon the Vicomte shrugged his narrow shoulders, and, his errand done, took his leave of me.
When he was gone I called Michelot, to tell him of the journey I must go that night, so that he might hold himself in readiness.
“Why—if Monsieur will pardon me,” quoth he, “do you go to meet the Marquis de St. Auban at St. Sulpice des Reaux by night?”
“Precisely what I asked Vilmorin. The Marquis desires it, and—what will you?—since I am going to kill the man, I can scarce do less than kill him on a spot of his own choosing.”
Michelot screwed up his face and scratched at his grey beard with his huge hand.
“Does no suspicion of foul play cross your mind, Monsieur?” he inquired timidly.