“What murderer?” he asked.
“Why, my brother-in-law’s, of course!”
“I am your brother-in-law’s murderer.”
He said it without a tremor, without altering or lowering his voice, without making a movement and so naturally that at first Julius did not understand. Lafcadio was obliged to repeat:
“Your brother-in-law’s murderer has not been arrested, I tell you, for the good reason that I am your brother-in-law’s murderer.”
If there had been anything fierce about Lafcadio, Julius might perhaps have taken fright, but he looked a mere child. He seemed younger even than the first time Julius had met him; his eyes were as limpid, his voice as clear. He had shut the door, but remained leaning with his back against it. Julius, standing near the table, sank all of a heap into an arm-chair.
“My poor boy!” was the first thing he said, “speak lower!... What can have possessed you? How could you have done such a thing?”
Lafcadio bowed his head. He already regretted having spoken.
“How can I tell? I did it very quickly—just when it came over me.”
“What grudge can you have had against Fleurissoire—worthy, virtuous man?”