"Cecile came to me; questioned me. I told her you were dead. It is my
fault. You see, Marc, all the fault is mine. She had been faithful to
her marriage vow, till certain news of your death reached her. Then she
was free to marry. Alas! that mine was the tongue that gave her the
freedom!"
"Curse you, Pierre Crepin!"
He was becoming terribly excited. I begged him to be calm.
"I am a man, Marc. I can die like one. If you were reasonable, you
would know that I have always been your good friend. You are
unreasonable--"
"I _am_ unreasonable? I shall live only for vengeance! First, I will
kill you; then greybeard Andre; then--then her!"
"And then, Marc?"
"Myself!"
"You have your pistol. I have no weapon. You will not shoot me in cold
blood? That is not Marc Debois, even now!"
"Fetch one!" he shouted, imperatively. "No! Stay! I cannot trust you!
We will draw lots for this!"
It was useless to reason, to expostulate, to advise. He was mad. It
remained to fight. I commended the issue to Providence, and prayed that
neither of us, unfit for death, miraculously saved and brought back to
the sound of human voices, might fall.
He pulled two bents from a tuft of the mountain grass growing on a
hillock near us--one shorter, one longer,--and presented them to me for
choice.
"You can trust me!" he said, with a wildly ironical smile.
To hesitate was to be shot in cold blood. I felt this, and acted with
resolution.
"I can trust you, Marc."
"Short fires first!"