M. Costeclar had expected worse from M. de Tregars’ look. A horrible fear had instantly crushed within him all idea of resistance.
“Mademoiselle,” he stuttered in a choking voice. “I am the vilest of wretches,” continued Marius. M. Costeclar’s livid face was oscillating like an inert object.
“I am,” he repeated, “the vilest of wretches.”
“And I beg of you—”
But Mlle. Gilberte was sick of the sight.
“Enough,” she interrupted, “enough!”
Feeling no longer upon his shoulders the heavy hand of M. de Tregars, the stock-broker rose with difficulty to his feet. So livid was his face, that one might have thought that his whole blood had turned to gall.
Dusting with the end of his glove the knees of his trousers, and restoring as best he could the harmony of his toilet, which had been seriously disturbed,
“Is it showing any courage,” he grumbled, “to abuse one’s physical strength?”
M. de Tregars had already recovered his self-possession; and Mlle. Gilberte thought she could read upon his face regret for his violence.