“I claim to be called Jasper Carew,” said I, calmly and slowly; “I will accept no other designation from you nor any one.”
“You have learned your part admirably,” said he, with a sneer; “but remember that I am myself the prompter; so pray reserve the triumphs of your art for the public!”
“Anatole,” said I, addressing him with an emotion I could not repress, “I desire to be frank and candid with you. This name of Jasper Carew I believe firmly to be mine.”
A burst of laughter, insulting to the last degree, stopped me in my speech.
“Why, Gervois, this is madness, my worthy fellow. Just bethink you of how this plot originated; who suggested, who carried it on,—ay, and where it stands at this very moment. That you yourself are as nothing in it; the breath that made can still unmake you; and that I have but to declare you an impostor and a cheat,—hard words, but you will have them,—and the law will deal with you as it knows how to deal with those who trade on false pretences. Yours be the blame if I be pushed to such reprisals!”
“And what if I defied you, Count Ysaffich?” said I, boldly.
“If you but dared to do it!” said he, with a menace of his clenched hand.
“Now listen to me calmly,” said I; “and there is the more need of calm, since, possibly, these are the very last words that shall ever pass between us. My claim can neither be aided nor opposed by you.”
“Is the fellow mad?” exclaimed he, staring wildly at me.
“I am in my calm and sober senses,” replied I, quietly.