“Ah! the wretched woman!” then murmured his wife, “when one thinks that two men are going to kill each other on account of her! In her place I could never sleep again.”
Auguste remained firm. He would fight. Moreover, his plans were settled. As he particularly wished Duveyrier to be second, he was going up to inform him of what had taken place, and to send him at once to Octave. Valérie, who was most obliging to Auguste, ended by offering to attend at the pay-desk, to give him time to find a suitable person.
“Only,” added she, “I must take Camille to the Tuileries gardens toward two o’clock.”
“Oh! it does not matter for once in a way!” said her husband. “It’s raining, too.”
“No, no, the child wants air. I must go out.”
At length the two brothers went up to the Duveyriers’. But an abominable fit of coughing obliged Théophile to stop on the very first stair. He held on the hand-rail, and, when he was able to speak, though still with a slight rattle in his throat, he stammered:
“You know, I’m very happy now; I’m quite sure of her, No; I’ve not the least thing to reproach her with, and she has given me proofs.”
Auguste stared at him without comprehending, and saw how yellow and half dead he looked, with the scanty hairs of his beard drying up in his flabby flesh. The look completed Théophile’s annoyance, whilst he felt quite embarrassed by his brother’s valor.
“I am speaking of my wife,” he resumed. “Ah! poor old fellow, I pity you with all my heart! You recollect my stupidity on your wedding day. But with you there can be no mistake, as you saw them.”
“Bah!” said Auguste, doing the brave, “I’ll spit him like a lark. On my word, I shouldn’t care a hang if I hadn’t such a headache!”