What he assumed to be anxiety on the score of the predestined victim had irritated him in M. de Kercadiou; in Aline it filled him with a cold anger; he argued from it that she had hardly been frank with him; that ambition was urging her to consider with favour the suit of M. de La Tour d’Azyr. And than this there was no spur that could have driven more relentlessly in his purpose, since to save her was in his eyes almost as momentous as to avenge the past. She conned him searchingly, and the complete calm of him at such a time amazed her. She could not repress the mention of it. “How calm you are, Andre!” “I am not easily disturbed. It is a vanity of mine.” “But... Oh, Andre, this meeting must not take place!” She came close up to him, to set her hands upon his shoulders, and stood so, her face within a foot of his own. “You know, of course, of some good reason why it should not?” said he. “You may be killed,” she answered him, and her eyes dilated as she spoke. It was so far from anything that he had expected that for a moment he could only stare at her. Then he thought he had understood. He laughed as he removed her hands from his shoulders, and stepped back. This was a shallow device, childish and unworthy in her. “Can you really think to prevail by attempting to frighten me?” he asked, and almost sneered. “Oh, you are surely mad! M. de La Tour d’Azyr is reputed the most dangerous sword in France.” “Have you never noticed that most reputations are undeserved? Chabrillane was a dangerous swordsman, and Chabrillane is underground. La Motte-Royau was an even more dangerous swordsman, and he is in a surgeon’s hands. So are the other spadassinicides who dreamt of skewering a poor sheep of a provincial lawyer. And here to-day comes the chief, the fine flower of these bully-swordsmen. He comes, for wages long overdue. Be sure of that. So if you have no other reason to urge...” It was the sarcasm of him that mystified her. Could he possibly be sincere in his assurance that he must prevail against M. de La Tour d’Azyr? To her in her limited knowledge, her mind filled with her uncle’s contrary conviction, it seemed that Andre-Louis was only acting; he would act a part to the very end. Be that as it might, she shifted her ground to answer him. “You had my uncle’s letter?” “And I answered it.” “I know. But what he said, he will fulfil. Do not dream that he will relent if you carry out this horrible purpose.” “Come, now, that is a better reason than the other,” said he. “If there is a reason in the world that could move me it would be that. But there is too much between La Tour d’Azyr and me. There is an oath I swore on the dead hand of Philippe de Vilmorin. I could never have hoped that God would afford me so great an opportunity of keeping it.” “You have not kept it yet,” she warned him.