"Call, Madame!" His violence got the better of him, and he seized her
wrist. "Call to the fellow who calls himself the Chevalier; call!"
"Do I hear some one calling my name?" said a voice not far away.
D'Hérouville looked over madame's shoulder, while madame turned with
relief. She quickly released her wrist and sped some distance up the
path, passing the Chevalier, who did not stop till he stood face to
face with D'Hérouville.
"You were about to remark?" began the Chevalier, a frank and honest
hatred in his eyes.
The count eyed him contemptuously. "Stand out of the way, you . . ."
"Do not speak that word aloud, Monsieur," interrupted the Chevalier,
gloomily, "or I will force it down your throat, though we both tumble
over the cliff."
D'Hérouville knew the Périgny blood well enough to believe that the
Chevalier was in earnest. "It would be your one opportunity," he said;
"for you do not suppose I shall do you the honor to cross swords with
you."
"Most certainly I do. You laughed that night, and no man shall laugh
at me and boast of it."
"I shall always laugh," and the count's laughter, loud and insulting,
drifted to where madame stood.
There was something so sinister in the echo that she became chilled.
She watched the two men, fascinated by she knew not what.
"You shall die for that laugh," said the Chevalier, paling.
"By the cliff, then, but never by the sword."
"By the sword. I shall challenge you at the first mess you attend. If
you refuse and state your reasons, I promise to knock you down. If you
persist in refusing, I shall slap your face wherever and whenever we
chance to meet. That is all I have to say to you; I trust that it is
explicit."
D'Hérouville's eyes were full of venom. "It wants only the poet to
challenge me, and the circle will be complete. I will fight the poet
and the vicomte; they come from no doubtful source. As for you, I will
do you the honor to hire a trooper to take my place. Fight you? You
make me laugh against my will! And as for threats, listen to me.
Strike me, and by the gods! Madame shall learn who you are, or,
rather, who you pretend to be." The count whistled a bar of music,
swung about cavalierly, and retraced his steps toward the lower town.
The Chevalier stared at his retreating figure till it sank below the
level of the ridge. He was without redress; he was impotent;
D'Hérouville would do as he said. God! He struck his hands together
in his despair, forgetful that madame saw his slightest movement. When
he recollected her, he moved toward her. Madame. D'Hérouville had
called her madame.