In the end you will have to go. I think if I were you I would
not wait. The train de luxe to Calais is more comfortable than a wet
bench in the Morgue or a French prison."
"Who has decided this?" Duncombe asked. "What Emperor has signed the
decree of my banishment?"
"There have been worse served Emperors," the Vicomte remarked, "than
the, shall we say person, who bids you go!"
"What is my offence?" Duncombe asked.
"I know nothing," the Vicomte answered slowly, pouring himself out some
absinthe.
"Who are my judges, then? What secret authorities have I incensed? I am
an honest man, engaged in an honest mission. Why should I not be allowed
to execute it?"
The Vicomte half closed his eyes. Duncombe was a little angry. The
Vicomte regarded him with reproachful wonder.
"You ask me so many questions," he murmured, "and I tell you that I know
nothing. I have asked you to come here with me because I had just this
to say. I can answer no questions, offer no explanations. I have no
particular liking for you, but I am afflicted with a cursedly sensitive
disposition, and--there are things which I find it hard to watch with
equanimity.
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