Bergenheim kept silent, his sombre eyes lowered to the floor.
“Listen to me, Monsieur,” continued Gerfaut, with great emotion; “when I said to you, ‘She is not guilty,’ you did not believe me, and I despair of ever persuading you, for I know well what your suspicions must be. However, these are the last words addressed to you that will leave my mouth, and you know that one has to believe a dying man’s statement. If tomorrow you avenge yourself, I earnestly beg of you, let this reparation suffice. All my pride is gone, you see, since I beg this of you upon my bended knees. Be humane toward her; spare her, Monsieur. It is not pardon which I ask you to grant her—it is pity for her unsullied innocence. Treat her kindly—honorably. Do not make her too wretched.”
He stopped, for his voice failed him, and his eyes filled with tears.
“I know what I ought to do,” replied the Baron, in as harsh a tone as Gerfaut’s had been tender; “I am her husband, and I do not recognize anybody’s right, yours least of all, to interpose between us.”
“I can foresee the fate which you have in reserve for her,” replied the lover, indignantly; “you will not murder her, for that would be too imprudent; what would become of your vaunted honor then? But you will slowly kill her; you will make her die a new death every day, in order to satisfy a blind vengeance. You are a man to meditate over each new torture as calmly as you have regulated every detail of our duel.”
Bergenheim, instead of replying, lighted a candle as if to put an end to this discussion.
“Until to-morrow, Monsieur,” said he, with a cold air.
“One moment!” exclaimed Gerfaut, as he arose; “you refuse to give me one word which will assure me of the fate of the woman whose life I have ruined?”
“I have nothing to say.”
“Very well, then; I will protect her, and I will do it in spite of you and against you.”