“There, there,” cried I; “it's past and over now. Here is my hand.”
“You struck me with that hand,” said he, in a deep, distinct voice, as though every word came from the very bottom of his chest.
“And if I did, Henri, my own life was on the blow.”
“Oh that you had taken mine with it!” said he, with a bitterness I can never forget. “I am the first of my name that ever received a blow; would I were to be the last!”
“You forget, De Beauvais—”
“No, sir; I forget nothing. Be assured, too, I never shall forget this night. With any other than yourself I should not despair of that atonement for an injury which alone can wash out such a stain; but you,—I know you well,—you will not give me this.”
“You are right, De Beauvais; I will not,” said I, calmly. “Sorry am I that even an accident should have brought us into collision. It is a mischance I feel deeply, and shall for many a day.”
“And I, sir,” cried he, as, starting up, his eyes flashed with passion and his cheek grew scarlet,—“and I, sir!—what are to be my feelings? Think you, that because I am an exile and an outcast,—forced by misfortune to wear the livery of one who is not my rightful sovereign,—that my sense of personal honor is the less, and that the mark of an insult is not as blood-stained on my conscience as ever it was?”
“Nothing but passion could blind you to the fact that there can be no insult where no intention could exist.”
“Spare me your casuistry, sir,” replied he, with an insolent wave of his hand, while he sank into a chair, and laid his head upon the table.