"Give it into the hands of Monsieur Le Beau and depart."
"Brought by Onda, in person. It will throw light," murmured Ronsard.
Pierre was fumbling and fidgeting at the top of the long, thin Japanese envelope. In an excess of childish impatience he tore it with his teeth. The cat lifted its head at the noise, but was pressed down instantly by the firm hand of its master. It sneezed indignantly, and went to sleep.
Pierre, after two flashing readings, burst into a harsh laugh, threw the missive toward Ronsard, and then hurrying to a window, leaned his forehead to the cold glass.
The note was in English, written on very thin Japanese rice-paper, six inches wide and perhaps a yard in length. A Japanese writing brush had evidently been used, for in the slow, painful composition the writer had lingered, sometimes for the following word or letter, and where the brush rested a small round blot had spread. It was dated that morning. It contained but one long sentence, built up of participial and relative clauses, as in all Japanese construction.
"Mr. Pierre Le Beau,—My daughter Onda Yuki-ko having last night become by her own will no force the affianced [affianced held three blots] wife of Prince Sanètomo Haganè Minister of War Daimyo of Konda for great honor to her family and service to her native land we respectfully desire you your honorable body from our neighborhood remove entirely or trouble will become,
Onda Tetsujo."
Ronsard held it out. "Daudet might have done better in phrasing, but even he could have made the meaning no plainer."
Pierre at the window gave a sound of derision, and was still.
The count sipped daintily at his coffee, and offered some to the cat, who, mindful of recent indignity, turned her head. Lifting the diaphanous screed, he read it once more carefully, studying, it would seem, each separate word.
Pierre raised one delicate hand and tapped on the window-frame the rhythm of an air from Carmen. Still Ronsard gave no sign.