André closed the door. “You will not return to the château,” he said quietly.
“My dear Vicomte, you suffer from the strangest hallucinations, stupid phantoms of the mind, if you——”
“Perhaps,” was the cold reply, “but the point of a sword is a reality which exorcises any and every phantom.”
The Chevalier laughed softly.
“Yes,” André continued, “I say it with infinite regret, because you are young, you will not return to the château, for I am going to kill you, unless——”
“Unless?” The Chevalier slowly swung off the table.
“Unless you will give me your word of honour now that you will leave France to-morrow and never return.”
The young man reflectively put back one of his dainty love curls. “Ah, my dear Vicomte,” he answered, “I say it too with infinite regret, but that I cannot promise. So you must kill me I fear. Alas!” he added with dilatory derision, “alas! what have I done?”
“Very good”—André fastened his cloak—“in three days we will meet in Paris.”
“In Paris? Why not kill me here?”