He refused to allow these taunts to affect his calm as
the vicomte had hoped they would. If he passed through this crisis, he
would tell madame the truth. . . . De Brissac! A blur swept across
his eyes, and for a moment his hand shook. De Brissac, De Montbazon!
It came to him now, the truth of all this coquetry, this fast and
loose, this dangling of promises: the vengeance of a woman's vanity.
The irony of this moment, the stinging, bitter irony!
The vicomte never knew how close victory was to him in that moment.
"Monsieur le Comte," said madame, "fight bravely, and God be with you.
As for me, be easy; Monsieur le Vicomte will not so much as put a
finger on me while I live." She drew a knife from the bosom of her
blouse and held it in her hand significantly.
"Half the victory gone already, Vicomte!" cried the Chevalier. Madame
had addressed him as "Monsieur le Comte."
"Do not disfigure your beauty, Madame; I desire that," was the
vicomte's mocking retort. "Now, my friends, if you all would see _la
belle France_ again! But mind; the man who strikes the Chevalier a
fatal blow shall by my own hand peg out.
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