The stars did not twinkle--they
glared. The nightingales did not sing--they screamed. And the roses were
odorless. Perhaps all this change to gloom was within me rather than
without, but it existed just the same, and I went home and to bed, hating
all the world save Bettina, whom I vowed for the hundredth time never to
see again.
The next day at noon De Grammont came to my closet, where I had waited
for him all morning.
"Welcome to you, dear count!" I cried, leading him by the hand to a
chair.
"Perhaps you will not so warmly welcome me," he returned, "when you learn
my errand."
"I already know your errand, Count Grammont, and it makes you doubly
welcome," I answered, drawing a chair for myself and sitting down in
front of him.
"Ah, that is of good," he returned, rubbing his hands. "You already know
the purpose of my visit?"
"Yes, I do, my dear count, but any purpose would delight me which brings
the pleasure of your company."
"Ah, it is said like a civilized man," he returned, complimenting
me by speaking English, though I shall not attempt to reproduce his
pronunciation. "How far better it is to say: 'Monsieur, permit to me,'
before one runs a man through than to do it as though one were sticking
a mere pig. Is it not so?"
"True as sunshine, my dear count," I returned. "There's a vast difference
between the trade of butchering and the gentle art of murder."
De Grammont threw back his head, laughing softly.
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