“Sir!”
But at one bound M. de Tregars had caught him.
“On your knees!” he cried.
And, seizing him by the collar with an iron grip, he lifted him
clear off the floor, and then threw him down violently upon both
knees.
“Speak!” he commanded. “Repeat,--‘Mademoiselle’”
M. Costeclar had expected worse from M. de Tregars’ look. A horrible
fear had instantly crushed within him all idea of resistance.
“Mademoiselle,” he stuttered in a choking voice. “I am the vilest
of wretches,” continued Marius. M. Costeclar’s livid face was
oscillating like an inert object.
“I am,” he repeated, “the vilest of wretches.”
“And I beg of you--”
But Mlle. Gilberte was sick of the sight.
“Enough,” she interrupted, “enough!”
Feeling no longer upon his shoulders the heavy hand of M. de Tregars,
the stock-broker rose with difficulty to his feet. So livid was his
face, that one might have thought that his whole blood had turned
to gall.
Dusting with the end of his glove the knees of his trousers, and
restoring as best he could the harmony of his toilet, which had been
seriously disturbed,
“Is it showing any courage,” he grumbled, “to abuse one’s physical
strength?”
M. de Tregars had already recovered his self-possession; and Mlle.
Gilberte thought she could read upon his face regret for his violence.
“Would it be better to make use of what you know?” M. Costeclar
joined his hands.
“You would not do that,” he said. “What good would it do you to
ruin me?”
“None,” answered M. de Tregars: “you are right. But yourself?”
And, looking straight into M. Costeclar’s eyes,--“If you could be
of service to me,” he inquired, “would you be willing?”
“Perhaps. That I might recover possession of the papers you have.”