For a moment the two young men stood face to face, as though neither had yet understood. Then the comte stepped back. One pace. Then two. His lips moved without a sound. He looked at his reddened hand. And he fell. The sound was dull. Final. The wind passed through the hedgerows. No one spoke.
The priest had already knelt beside the dead man, murmuring the first prayers, giving the tragedy a shape the living could bear.
One of Missandre’s brothers, his face ashen, stepped forward and pointed a trembling finger at Henri:
— You have just killed a man! And since duels have been forbidden since Richelieu, at best you’ll have your head cut off... at worst you’ll hang like the commoner you seem to have become!
