The Chevalier de Chabrillane--who in reality occupied towards the Marquis a position akin to that of gentleman-in-waiting--sat opposite to him in the enormous travelling berline. A small folding table had been erected between them, and the Chevalier suggested piquet. But M. le Marquis was in no humour for cards. His thoughts absorbed him. As they were rattling over the cobbles of Nantes’ streets, he remembered a promise to La Binet to witness her performance that night in “The Faithless Lover.” And now he was running away from her. The thought was repugnant to him on two scores. He was breaking his pledged word, and he was acting like a coward. And there was more than that. He had led the mercenary little strumpet--it was thus he thought of her at present, and with some justice--to expect favours from him in addition to the lavish awards which already he had made her. The baggage had almost sought to drive a bargain with him as to her future. He was to take her to Paris, put her into her own furniture--as the expression ran, and still runs--and under the shadow of his powerful protection see that the doors of the great theatres of the capital should be opened to her talents. He had not--he was thankful to reflect--exactly committed himself. But neither had he definitely refused her. It became necessary now to come to an understanding, since he was compelled to choose between his trivial passion for her--a passion quenched already--and his deep, almost spiritual devotion to Mademoiselle de Kercadiou. His honour, he considered, demanded of him that he should at once deliver himself from a false position. La Binet would make a scene, of course; but he knew the proper specific to apply to hysteria of that nature. Money, after all, has its uses. He pulled the cord. The carriage rolled to a standstill; a footman appeared at the door. “To the Theatre Feydau,” said he. The footman vanished and the berline rolled on. M. de Chabrillane laughed cynically. “I’ll trouble you not to be amused,” snapped the Marquis. “You don’t understand.” Thereafter he explained himself. It was a rare condescension in him. But, then, he could not bear to be misunderstood in such a matter. Chabrillane grew serious in reflection of the Marquis’ extreme seriousness. “Why not write?” he suggested. “Myself, I confess that I should find it easier.” Nothing could better have revealed M. le Marquis’ state of mind than his answer. “Letters are liable both to miscarriage and to misconstruction. Two risks I will not run. If she did not answer, I should never know which had been incurred. And I shall have no peace of mind until I know that I have set a term to this affair. The berline can wait while we are at the theatre. We will go on afterwards. We will travel all night if necessary.” “Peste!” said M. de Chabrillane with a grimace. But that was all.