Visions of Champcenetz, of Barnave, of Mirabeau-Tonneau, passed through the Marquis’ mind. “But, my dear Louis,” he began, somewhat aghast, “the days are surely over when you of the Court can hope to rid yourselves by that means of obnoxious deputies. You are not in 1790 now. Who was it—and where did you meet? I should not have thought an encounter possible——” He broke off in perplexity and a genuine anxiety. “You are not deceiving me, Louis?” he asked. “You are not seriously hurt?” “No more than this,” replied the Vicomte lightly, holding up the bandaged wrist. “As I told you, a scratch—due to my own carelessness. It was all over in three minutes.” “And your adversary?” “I ran him through the lungs,” returned Saint-Ermay. “He will recover.” Both statements were made with great indifference, but Gilbert remarked that the speaker’s face was many degrees graver than his tone, and that he was studying the ornamentation of the bottom of the bed with almost a sombre expression. For his own part he scarcely knew what to say. “I am glad you are come out of it so well,” he observed at length, “and, considering the present state of affairs, perhaps even more glad that you did not kill your deputy. Is it permitted to ask the cause of dispute?” Louis turned his gaze on his kinsman. “I am afraid I must ask you to spare me any further questions,” he said, and then he looked away, and began to stroke Lucidor, the Persian. “And . . . it was not a deputy. It was M. de Bercy with whom I fought.” “Of your own party!” “Precisely!” responded Louis bitterly. “Unfortunately, membership of that party does not seem to be a guarantee for—honourable conduct. However,” he continued, with a spice of vindictive enjoyment, “he will have time enough to repent of it. I am not sure that I wanted to kill him—this morning.” The Marquis lifted his eyebrows and refrained from speech, though he could have given vent to some very trenchant remarks. The Vicomte, who had now been serious for quite four minutes (and Gilbert thought he scarcely remembered in him so long a period of gravity) suddenly shook off his preoccupation. “I know exactly what you are thinking, Gilbert,” he said, with a certain malign merriment in his eyes. “We are mad, are we not? Ah well! one must live, and to-morrow takes care of itself, you know. And confess now, Monsieur le Marquis, that—seeing one’s days on this planet are likely shortly to be accomplished (oh, I am not blind as well as mad)—confess now, that, fool as you think me, I get more out of my foolish life than you with all your wisdom and your dirty peasants!” If his cousin’s remark were true, Château-Foix had no intention of acknowledging it. “I am not here to discuss the general philosophy of life with you,” he responded with a smile, “but its conduct at this particular juncture. I have seen the King.” “The deuce you have!” exclaimed the Vicomte, sitting up. “When?” “This morning. I had an audience at ten o’clock.”