Meanwhile, the Marquis Fontenelle had been nearly a fortnight in Rome,
living a sufficiently curious sort of life, and passing his time in a
constant endeavour to avoid being discovered and recognised by any of
his numerous acquaintances who were arriving there for the winter. His
chief occupation was of course to watch the Comtesse Sylvie,--and he
was rewarded for his untiring pains by constant and bewitching glimpses
of her. Sometimes he would see her driving, wrapped in furs, her tiny
Japanese dog curled up in a fold of her sables, and on her lap a knot
of violets, the fresh scent of which came to him like a sweet breath on
the air as she passed. Once he almost met her, face to face in the
gardens of the Villa Borghese, walking all alone, and reading a book in
which she seemed to be deeply interested. He made a few cautious
enquiries about her, and learnt that she lived very quietly,--that she
received certain "great" people,--especially Cardinals and Monsignori,
notably Monsignor Gherardi, who was a constant visitor. But of any
closer admirer he never gathered the slightest rumour, till one
afternoon, just when the sun was sinking in full crimson glory behind
the dome of St. Peter's, he saw her carriage come to a sudden halt on
the Pincio and she herself leaned out of it to shake hands with, and
talk to a tall fair man, who seemed to be on exceptionally friendly
terms with her. It is true she was accompanied in the carriage by the
famous Sovrani,--but that fact did not quell the sudden flame of
jealousy which sprang up in Fontenelle's mind--for both ladies appeared
equally charmed with the fair man, and their countenances were radiant
with pleasure and animation all the time they were in conversation with
him. When the carriage resumed its round again, the Marquis sauntered
by a side path where he could take quiet observation of his apparent
rival, who walked past him with a firm light step, looking handsome,
happy, and amazingly confident. There was an old man raking the path,
and of him Fontenelle asked carelessly,
"Do you know who that gentleman is?"
The gardener looked up and smiled.
"Ah, si, si! Il Signor Inglese! Molto generoso! Il Signor Aubri Lee!"
Aubrey Leigh! A "celebrity" then,--an English author;--not that all
English authors are considered "celebrities" in Rome. Italian society
makes very short work of spurious art, and closes its doors ruthlessly
against mere English "Grub Street". But Aubrey Leigh was more than an
author,--he was an influential power in the world, as the Marquis well
knew.
"A great religious reformer! And yet a victim to the little Sylvie!" he
mused, "Well! The two things will not work together. Though truly
Sylvie would captivate a John Knox or a Cromwell. I really think,--I
really do begin to think, that rather than lose her altogether, I must
marry her!"
And he went back to the obscure hotel where he had chosen temporarily
to reside in a meditative mood, and as he entered, was singularly
annoyed to see a flaring poster outside, announcing the arrival of
Miraudin and his whole French Company in Rome for a few nights only.
The name "MIRAUDIN" glared at him in big, fat, red letters on a bright
yellow ground; and involuntarily he muttered,
"D--n the fellow! Can I go nowhere in the world without coming across
him!"
Irritated, and yet knowing his irritation to be foolish,--for after
all, what was the famous actor to him?--what was there in his
personality to annoy him beyond the trivial fact of a curious personal
resemblance?--he retired to his room in no pleasant humour, and sitting
down began to write a letter to Sylvie asking her to be his wife. Yet
somehow the power of expression seemed lacking, and once or twice he
laid down his pen in a fit of abstraction, wondering why, when he had
sought Sylvie as a lover only, he had been able to write the most
passionate love phrases, full of ardour and poetry, and now, when he
was about to make her the offer of his whole life, his sentences were
commonplace and almost cold. And presently he tore up what he had been
writing, and paced the room impatiently.
"The fact is I shall make a bad husband, and I know it!" he said
candidly to himself, "And Sylvie will make a great mistake if she
accepts me!"
He walked to the window and looked out. His hotel was not in a
fashionable or frequented quarter of Rome, and the opposite view of the
street was anything but enlivening. Dirty, frowsy women,--idle men,
lounging along with the slouching gait which is common to the
'unemployed' Italian,--half-naked children, running hither and thither
in the mud, and screaming like tortured wild animals,--this kind of
shiftless, thriftless humanity, pictured against the background of ugly
modern houses, such as one might find in a London back slum, made up a
cheerless prospect, particularly as the blue sky was clouded and it was
beginning to rain. One touch of colour brightened the scene for a
moment, when a girl with a yellow handkerchief tied round her head
passed along, carrying a huge flat basket overflowing with bunches of
purple violets, and as Fontenelle caught the hue, and imagined the
fragrance of the flowers, he was surprised to feel his eyes smart with
a sudden sting of tears. The picture of Sylvie Hermenstein, with her
child-like head, fair hair, and deep blue eyes, floated before
him,--she was fond of violets, and whenever she wore them, their odour
seemed to be the natural exhalation of her sweet and spirituelle
personality.
"She is much too good for me!" he said half aloud, "To be perfectly
honest with myself, I know I have no stability of character, and I
cannot imagine myself remaining constant to any woman for more than six
months. And the best way is to be perfectly straight-forward about it."
He sat down again, and without taking any more thought wrote straight
from the heart of his present humour, addressing her by the name he had
once playfully bestowed upon her.
"Enchanteresse! I am here in Rome, and this brief letter is to ask,
without preamble or apology, whether you will do me the infinite honour
to become my wife. I confess to you honestly that I am not worth this
consideration on your part, for I am not to be relied upon. I repose no
confidence in myself, therefore I will leave it to you to measure my
audacity in making the suggestion that you should place a lifetime's
confidence in me. But with all my heart, (as much as I know of it at
the present), I desire to show you what respect so poor a life as mine
can give to one who deserves all tenderness, as well as trust. If I may
hope that you will pardon my past follies and libertinage with regard
to you,--if you can love me well enough to wear my not too exalted
name, and preserve my remaining stock of honour, summon me to your
presence, and I will endeavour, by such devotion and fidelity as in me
lies, to atone for whatsoever offence I may have given you previously
by my too passionate pursuit of your beauty. Yours, unless you decide
my fate otherwise,
"GUY BEAUSIRE DE FONTENELLE."
Thrusting this note into an envelope he hastily sealed it, but decided
not to post it till late at night, in order that Sylvie might only
receive it with the early morning, when her mind was fresh, and
unswayed by any opinions or events of a long day. And to pass the time
he strolled out to one of the many "osterie," or wine-houses which
abound in Rome,--a somewhat famous example of its kind in the Via
Quattro Fontane. Choosing a table where he could sit with his back
turned towards the door, so as to avoid being seen by either strangers
or possible friends, he took up the Giornale Romano, and ordered a
"mezzo-litro" of the "Genzano" wine, for which that particular house
has long been celebrated. He sat there about half an hour thus quietly
reading,--scarcely hearing the loud voices and louder laughter of the
men who came and went around him, when suddenly the name "Sylvie
Hermenstein" caught his ear. It was spoken carelessly and accompanied
with a laugh. Quietly laying down his newspaper, he sat very still in
his chair, keeping his back turned to the groups of wine drinkers who
were gathering in large numbers as the evening advanced, and listened.
"The most delicious little bonbon in the whole box! Jolie a craquer!"
said a man's voice.
"Chocolat fondant! Garantie tres pure!" cried another, his words being
followed by a shout of laughter.
Fontenelle gripped the arm of his chair, and held himself rigid, but
ready to spring.
"The Church always knows where to find the prettiest women," said the
first man who had spoken, "from the Santissima Madonna downwards! What
would become of the Pope if it were not for the women!"
"Bah! The Pope is only one man, but what would become of all the
Monsignori?" asked a voice different to the rest in mellowness and deep
quality, but with a touch of insolent mockery in its tone.
Another burst of laughter answered him.
Fontenelle turned in his chair and looked at the last speaker, and to
his amazement saw the actor, Miraudin. He was leaning carelessly
against the wine counter, a half-emptied "fiaschetto" in front of him,
and a full glass of wine in his hand.
"The Monsignori would be all desolate bachelors!" he went on, lazily,
"And the greatest rascal in the Vatican, Domenico Gherardi, would no
longer be the fortunate possessor of the wealth, the influence, and the
dear embraces of the fascinating Hermenstein!"
Scarcely had he spoken when the glass he held was dashed out of his
hand, and Fontenelle, white with fury, struck him smartly and full
across the face. A scene of the wildest confusion and uproar ensued.
All the men in the wine-shop crowded around them, and for a moment
Miraudin, blinded by the blow, and the wine that had splashed up
against his eyes, did not see who had struck him, but as he recovered
from the sudden shock and stared at his opponent, he broke into a wild
laugh.
"Diantre! Ban soir, Monsieur le Marquis! Upon my life, there is
something very strange in this! Fate or the devil, or both! Well! What
now!"
"You are a liar and a blackguard!" said Fontenelle fiercely, "And
unless you apologise for your insult to the lady whose name you have
presumed to utter with your mountebank tongue--"
"Apologise! I! Moi!--genie de France! Never!" retorted Miraudin with an
air of swaggering audacity, "All women are alike! I speak from
experience!"
White to the lips, the Marquis Fontenelle looked around.
"Are there any MEN here?" he asked, eying the crowd about him with
ineffable hauteur.
A young fellow stepped forward. "At your command, Marquis! You served
me once--I shall be happy to serve you now!"
Quickly Fontenelle shook hands with this timely friend. He recognised
in him a young Italian officer, named Ruspardi, an acquaintance of some
years back, to whom he had chanced to be useful in a pressing moment of
need.
"Thanks! Arrange everything for me, will you, Ruspardi? And as quickly
as possible!"
"It is nearly midnight now," said Ruspardi in a low tone, "Shall we say
five or six in the morning?"
"Yes--anything you like--but quickly!"
Then raising his head haughtily, he addressed Miraudin in distinct
tones.
"Monsieur Miraudin, you have greatly insulted and falsely slandered a
lady whom I have the honour to know. I have struck you for your lie;
and consider you worthy of no further treatment save a horsewhipping in
public. Gentlemen do not as a rule condescend to meet their paid
servants--actors and the like,--in single combat--but I will do you
that honour!"
And with these words he bowed haughtily to all present, and left the
scene of noisy disorder.
Out in the streets the moonlight lay in broad silver bands, like white
glistening ribbon spread in shining strips across the blackness, and
there was a moisture in the air which,--dropped as it were fresh, from
the surrounding hills,--cooled Fontenelle's flushed face and burning
brows. He walked rapidly,--he had a vague, unformed desire in his mind
to see Sylvie again if possible. He knew where she lived, and he soon
turned down the street where the quaint old central balcony of the Casa
D'Angeli thrust itself forward into the moon-rays among the sculptured
angels' wings,--and he saw that the windows were open. Pausing
underneath he waited, hesitating--full of strange thoughts and stranger
regrets. How poor and valueless seemed his life as he regarded it
now!--now when he had voluntarily placed it in jeopardy! What had he
done with his days of youth and prime? Frittered away every valuable
moment,--thrown to the winds every costly opportunity,--spent his
substance on light women who had kissed and clung to him one day, and
repulsed him the next. Well--and after? His heart beat thickly,--if he
could only see Sylvie for a moment! Hush! There was a murmur--a
voice--a ripple of sweet laughter; and moving cautiously back into the
shadows, he looked up--yes!--there she was--clad in some soft silvery
stuff that gathered a thousand sparkles from the light of the
moon,--her fair hair caught up in a narrow circlet of diamonds, and her
sweet face purely outlined against the dark worn stone of one of the
great carved angel-wings. But someone was with her,--someone whom
Fontenelle recognised at once by the classic shape of his head and
bright curly hair,--the man whom he had seen that very day on the
Pincio,--Aubrey Leigh. With a jealous tightening at his heart,
Fontenelle saw that Leigh held the soft plume of downy feathers which
served Sylvie for a fan, and that he was lightly waving it to and fro
as he talked to her in the musical, all-potent voice which had charmed
thousands, and would surely not be without its fascination for the
sensitive ears of a woman. Moving a little closer he tried to hear what
was being said,--but Leigh spoke very softly, and Sylvie answered with
equal softness, so that he could catch no distinct word. Yet the mere
tone of these two voices melted into a harmony more dulcet and perfect
than could be endured by Fontenelle with composure, and uttering an
impatient exclamation at his own folly he hastily left his retreat, and
with one parting glance up at the picture of fair loveliness above him
walked swiftly away. Returning to his hotel he saw the letter that he
had written to Sylvie lying on the table, and he at once posted it.
Then he began to prepare for his encounter with Miraudin. He dressed
quickly,--wrote a few business letters,--and was about to lie down for
a rest of an hour or so when the swift and furious galloping of a
horse's hoofs awoke the echoes of the quiet street, and almost before
he had time to realise what had happened, his friend Ruspardi stood
before him, breathless and wild with excitement.
"Marquis, you are tricked!" he cried, "Everything is
prepared--seconds,--pistols,--all! But your man--your man has gone!"
"Gone!" exclaimed Fontenelle furiously, "Where?"
"Out of Rome! In a common fiacre--taking his latest mistress, one of
the stage-women with him. They were seen driving by the Porta Pia
towards the Campagna half an hour ago! He dare not face fire--bully and
coward that he is!"
"I will go after him!" said Fontenelle promptly, "Half an hour ahead,
you say! Good!--I will catch him up. Can I get a horse anywhere?"
"Take mine," said Ruspardi eagerly, "he is perfectly fresh--just out of
the stable. Have you weapons?"
"Yes," and the Marquis unlocked a case, and loading two, placed them in
a travelling holder. Then, turning to Ruspardi he shook hands.
"Thanks, a thousand times! There are a few letters here--see to them if
I should not come back."
"What are you going to do?" asked Ruspardi, his excitement beginning to
cool a little, now that he saw the possible danger into which
Fontenelle was voluntarily rushing.
"Persuade the worthy mountebank either to come back or fight at once on
whatever ground I find him, and assume to be a gentleman--for once!"
said Fontenelle, carelessly. "Addio!"
And without further words he hurried off, and tossing a twenty-franc
piece to the sleepy hotel porter who was holding Ruspardi's horse
outside, he flung himself into the saddle and galloped away. Ruspardi,
young and hotblooded, was of too mercurial a disposition to anticipate
any really serious results of the night's adventure;--his contempt for
a coward was far greater than his fear of death, and he was delighted
to think that in all probability the Marquis would use his riding-whip
on Miraudin's back rather than honour him by a pistol shot. And so
dismissing all fears from his mind he took Fontenelle's letters in his
charge, and went straight out of the hotel singing gaily, charmed with
the exciting thought of the midnight chase which was going on, and the
possible drubbing and discomfiture of the "celebrated" Miraudin.
Meanwhile, under the flashing stars, and through the sleeping streets
of Rome, the Marquis galloped with almost breakneck haste. He was a
daring rider, and the spirited animal he bestrode soon discovered the
force of his governing touch,--the resolve of his urging speed. He went
by the Porta Pia, remembering Ruspardi's hurried description of the
route taken by the runaway actor, and felt, rather than saw the outline
of the Villa Torlonia, as he rushed past, and the Basilica of St.
Agnese Fuori le Mura, which is supposed to cover the tomb of the
child-martyr St. Agnes,--then across the Ponte Nomentano, till, two
miles further on, in the white radiance of the moon, he perceived,
driving rapidly ahead of him, the vehicle of which he was in pursuit.
Letting the reins fall loosely on the neck of his straining steed, he
raised himself in his stirrups, and by his own movements assisted the
animal's now perfectly reckless gallop,--and at last, hearing the
flying hoofs behind, the driver of the fiacre became seized with panic,
and thinking of possible brigands and how to pacify them, he suddenly
pulled up and came to a dead halt. A head was thrust out of the
carriage window,--Miraudin's head,--and Miraudin's voice shouted in bad
Italian,
"What are you stopping for, rascal! On with you! On with you! Five
hundred francs for your best speed!"
Scarcely had he uttered the words when the Marquis gained the side of
the vehicle, and pulling up his horse till it almost fell in rearing
backwards, he cried furiously,
"Lache! Tu vas te crever sur terre avant je te quitte!"
And he struck his riding-whip full in the actor's face.
Springing out of the fiacre Miraudin confronted his antagonist. His hat
was off--and his countenance, marked as it was with the crimson line of
the lash, lightened with laughter.
"Again! Monsieur le Marquis, je vous salue!" he said, "Kismet! One
cannot escape it! Better to fight with you, beau sire, than with
destiny! I am ready!"
Fontenelle at once dismounted, and tied his horse to the knotted bough
of a half-withered tree. Taking his pistols out of their holder he
proffered them to Miraudin.
"Choose!" he said curtly, "Or use your own if you have any,--but mine
are loaded,--take care yours are! Play no theatrical tricks on such a
stage as this! "And then he gave a comprehensive wave of his hand
towards the desolate waste of the Campagna around them, and the faint
blue misty lines of the Alban hills just rimmed with silver in the rays
of the moon.
At the first sight of the pistols the driver of the fiacre, who had
been more or less stupefied till now, by the suddenness of the
adventure, gave a sort of whining cry, and climbing down from his box
fell on his knees before Miraudin, and then ran a few paces and did the
same thing in front of the Marquis, imploring both men not to
fight,--not to get killed, on account of the trouble it would cause to
him, the coachman;--and with a high falsetto shriek a lady flung
herself out of the recesses of the closed vehicle, and clung to the
actor's arm.
"Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! What is it you would do?" she cried, "Be killed
out here on the Campagna? and not a soul in sight--not a house--not a
shelter? And what is to become of me!--Me!--Me!--" and she tapped her
heaving bosom in melodramatic style, "Have you thought of ME?"
"You--you!" laughed Miraudin, tearing off the lace veil which she wore
wrapped loosely round her head and shoulders, "You, Jeanne Richaud!
What is to become of you? The same fate will attend you that attends
all such little moths of the footlights! Perhaps a dozen more lovers
after me--then old age, and the care of a third-class lodging-house for
broken-down actors!" Here he chose his weapon. "At your service,
Marquis!"
Jeanne Richaud, a soubrette, whose chief stock-in-trade had been her
large dark eyes and shapely legs, uttered a desperate scream, and threw
herself at the feet of the Marquis Fontenelle.
"Monsieur! Monsieur! Think for a moment! This combat is unequal--out of
rule! You are a gentleman,--a man of honour!--would you fight without
seconds? It is murder--murder--!"
Here she broke off, terrified in spite of herself by the immovability
of Fontenelle's attitude, and the coldness of his eyes.
"I regret to pain you, Madame," he said stiffly, "This combat was
arranged according to rule between Monsieur Miraudin and myself some
hours since--and though it seems he did not intend to keep his
engagement I intend to keep mine! The principals in the fight are
here,--seconds are, as their name implies, a secondary matter. We must
do without them."
"By no means!" exclaimed Miraudin, "We have them! Here they are! You,
Jeanne, will you be my second--how often you have seconded me in many a
devil's game--and you--cochon d'un cocher!--you will for once in your
life support the honour of a Marquis!"
And with these words he seized the unhappy Roman cab-driver by the
collar of his coat, and flung him towards Fontenelle, who took not the
slightest notice of him as he lay huddled up and wailing on the grass,
but merely stood his ground, silently waiting. Mademoiselle Jeanne
Richaud however was not so easily disposed of. Throwing herself on the
cold ground, thick with the dust of dead Caesars, she clung to
Miraudin, pouring out a torrent of vociferous French, largely
intermixed with a special slang of the Paris streets, and broken by the
hysterical yells when she saw her "protector" throw off his coat, and,
standing in his shirt-sleeves, take close observation of the pistol he
held.
"Is this your care of me?" she cried, "Mon Dieu! What a thing is a man!
Here am I alone in a strange country--and you endanger your life for
some quarrel of which I know nothing,--yet you pretend to love me! Nom
de Jesus! What is your love!"
"You do well to ask," said Miraudin, laughing carelessly, "What is my
love! A passing fancy, chere petite! We actors simulate love too well
to ever feel it! Out of the way, jou-jou! Your life will be amusing so
long as you keep a little beaute de diable. After that--the
lodging-house!"
He pushed her aside, but she still clung pertinaciously to his arm.
"Victor! Victor!" she wailed, "Will you not look at me--will you not
kiss me!"
Miraudin wheeled round, and stared at her amazed.
"Kiss you!" he echoed, "Pardieu! Would you care! Jeanne! Jeanne! You
are a little mad,--the moonlight is too much for you! To-morrow I will
kiss you, when the sun rises--or if I am not here--why, somebody else
will!"
"Who is the woman you are fighting for?" she suddenly demanded,
springing up from her crouching position with flushed cheeks and
flashing eyes. Miraudin looked at her with nonchalant admiration.
"I wish you would have looked like that sometimes on my stage," he
said, "You would have brought down the house! 'Woman!' No 'woman' at
all, but WOMEN! The glamour of them--the witchery of them--women!--the
madness of them! Women!--The ONE woman saves when the ONE woman exists,
but then,--we generally kill HER! Now, once more, Jeanne,--out of the
way! Time flies, and Monsieur le Marquis is in haste. He has many
fashionable engagements!"
He flashed upon her a look from the bright amorous hazel eyes, that
were potent to command and difficult to resist, and she cowered back,
trembling and sobbing hysterically as the Marquis advanced.
"You are ready?" he enquired civilly.
"Ready!"
"Shall we say twelve paces?"
"Excellent!"
Deliberately Fontenelle dug his heel into the ground and measured
twelve paces from that mark between himself and his antagonist. Then
with cold courtesy he stood aside for Miraudin to assure himself that
the measurement was correct. The actor complied with this formality in
a sufficiently composed way, and with a certain grace and dignity which
Fontenelle might almost have taken for bravery if he had not been so
convinced that the man was "acting" still in his mind, and was going
through a "part" which he disliked, but which he was forced to play.
And with it all there was something indefinable about him--something
familiar in the turn of his head, the glance of his eye, the movement
of his body, which annoyed Fontenelle, because he saw in all these
little personal touches such a strong resemblance to himself. But there
was now no time to think, as the moment for the combat drew near.
Jeanne Richaud was still weeping hysterically and expostulating with
the cab-driver, who paid no attention whatsoever to her pleadings, but
remained obstinately on his knees out of harm's way, begging the
"Santissima Madonna" and all his "patron saints" to see him safely with
his fiacre back to the city. That was all he cared for.
"We have no one to give us a signal," said Miraudin lightly, "But there
is a cloud on the moon. When it passes, shall we fire?"
The Marquis bowed assent.
For a moment the moon-rays were obscured,--and a faint sigh from the
wind stirred the long dry grass. A bat flew by, scurrying towards the
Catacombs of Alexander,--a shadow lay upon the land. The
combatants,--so singularly alike in form and feature,--stood rigidly in
position, their weapons raised,--their only witnesses a cabman and a
wanton, both creatures terrified out of their wits for themselves and
their own safety. Swiftly the cloud passed--and a brilliant silver
glory was poured out on hill and plain and broken column,--and as it
shone, the two shots were fired simultaneously--the two bullets whizzed
through the air. A light puff of smoke rose in the moonbeams--it
cleared--and Miraudin reeled backwards and fell heavily to the ground.
Fontenelle stood upright, but staggered a little,--instinctively
putting his hand to his breast. Jeanne Richaud rushed to the side of
her fallen lover.
"Victor! Victor!"
Miraudin struggled up to a half sitting position--the blood was welling
up thickly from a wound in his lungs. Half suffocated as he was, he
made a strong effort to speak, and succeeded.
"Not you--not you!" he gasped, "Do not touch me! Do not come near me!
Him!--him!" And he pointed to Fontenelle who still stood erect, swaying
slightly to and fro with a dazed far-off look in his eyes--but now--as
the frenzied soubrette beckoned him, he moved unsteadily to the side of
his mortally wounded opponent, and there, through weakness, not
emotion, dropped on his knees. Miraudin looked at him with staring
filmy eyes.
"How I have hated you, Monsieur le Marquis!" he muttered thickly, "How
I have hated you! Yes--as Cain hated Abel! For we--we are brothers as
they were--born of the same father--ah! You start!" for Fontenelle
uttered a gasping cry--"Yes--in spite of your pride, your lineage, your
insolent air of superiority--YOUR father was MY father!--the late
Marquis was no more satisfied with one wife than any of us are!--and
had no higher code of honour! YOUR mother was a grande dame,--MINE was
a 'light o' love' like this feeble creature!" and he turned his glance
for a moment on the shuddering, wailing Jeanne Richaud. "YOU were the
legal Marquis--_I_ the illegal genius! . . . yes--genius--!"
He broke off, struggling for breath.
"Do you hear me?" he whispered thickly, "Do you hear?"
"I hear," answered Fontenelle, speaking with difficulty, "You have
hated me, you say--hate me no more!--for hate is done with--and love
also!--I am--dying!"
He grasped the rank grass with both hands in sudden agony, and his face
grew livid. Miraudin turned himself on one arm.
"Dying! You, too! By Heaven! Then the Marquisate must perish! I should
have fired in the air--but--but the sins of the fathers . . . what is
it?" Here a ghastly smile passed over his features, "The sins of the
fathers--are visited on the children! What a merciful Deity it is, to
make such an arrangement!--and the excellent fathers!--when all the
children meet them--I wonder what they will have to say to each other I
wonder . . ." A frightful shudder convulsed his body and he threw up
his arms.
"'Un peu d'amour,
Et puis--bon soir!'