Andre-Louis interrupted him. “It is no more a duel than if it had been fought with pistols of which only M. le Marquis’s was loaded. He invited Philippe to discuss the matter further, with the deliberate intent of forcing a quarrel upon him and killing him. Be patient with me, monsieur my god-father. I am not telling you of what I imagine but what M. le Marquis himself admitted to me.” Dominated a little by the young man’s earnestness, M. de Kercadiou’s pale eyes fell away. He turned with a shrug, and sauntered over to the window. “It would need a court of honour to decide such an issue. And we have no courts of honour,” he said. “But we have courts of justice.” With returning testiness the seigneur swung round to face him again. “And what court of justice, do you think, would listen to such a plea as you appear to have in mind?” “There is the court of the King’s Lieutenant at Rennes.” “And do you think the King’s Lieutenant would listen to you?” “Not to me, perhaps, Monsieur. But if you were to bring the plaint...” “I bring the plaint?” M. de Kercadiou’s pale eyes were wide with horror of the suggestion. “The thing happened here on your domain.” “I bring a plaint against M. de La Tour d’Azyr! You are out of your senses, I think. Oh, you are mad; as mad as that poor friend of yours who has come to this end through meddling in what did not concern him. The language he used here to M. le Marquis on the score of Mabey was of the most offensive. Perhaps you didn’t know that. It does not at all surprise me that the Marquis should have desired satisfaction.” “I see,” said Andre-Louis, on a note of hopelessness. “You see? What the devil do you see?” “That I shall have to depend upon myself alone.” “And what the devil do you propose to do, if you please?” “I shall go to Rennes, and lay the facts before the King’s Lieutenant.” “He’ll be too busy to see you.” And M. de Kercadiou’s mind swung a trifle inconsequently, as weak minds will. “There is trouble enough in Rennes already on the score of these crazy States General, with which the wonderful M. Necker is to repair the finances of the kingdom. As if a peddling Swiss bank-clerk, who is also a damned Protestant, could succeed where such men as Calonne and Brienne have failed.” “Good-afternoon, monsieur my godfather,” said Andre-Louis. “Where are you going?” was the querulous demand. “Home at present. To Rennes in the morning.” “Wait, boy, wait!” The squat little man rolled forward, affectionate concern on his great ugly face, and he set one of his podgy hands on his godson’s shoulder. “Now listen to me, Andre,” he reasoned. “This is sheer knight-errantry--moonshine, lunacy. You’ll come to no good by it if you persist. You’ve read ‘Don Quixote,’ and what happened to him when he went tilting against windmills. It’s what will happen to you, neither more nor less. Leave things as they are, my boy. I wouldn’t have a mischief happen to you.” Andre-Louis looked at him, smiling wanly.