"Softly, M. fighter," replied Pascal, coolly, as he retired, "softly, sir, they do not cut up people with a sword here, you see! And we are in France, you see! And we have, you see, some good little commissaries of police who receive the complaints of an honest citizen who is maltreated."
M. Pascal went out of the palace steeped in rancour, devoured with hate, bursting with rage. He thought of his thwarted scheme for usury, his disappointed love, and he could not banish from his thoughts the pale and glowing face of Madeleine, who, far from making him forget the virginal purity of Antonine's beauty, seemed to recall her more forcibly to his memory,—the two perfect, yet dissimilar, types heightening the charms of each by contrast.
"Man is a strange animal. I feel within me all the instincts of the tiger," said Pascal to himself, as he slowly walked down the street of the Faubourg St. Honoré, with both hands plunged in the pockets of his trousers. "No," added he, continuing to walk with his head down, and his eyes fixed mechanically on the pavement, "it is not necessary to say that for fear of rendering the envy they bear us millionaires less cruel, less bitter to those who feel it, because, fortunately, those who envy us suffer the torments of the damned for every joy they suppose we have. Yet, indeed, it is a fact,—here I am at this hour, with a purse which can provide me with every pleasure permitted or forbidden that ever a man was allowed to dream! I am still young, I am not a fool, I am full of strength and health, free as a bird, the earth is open to me. I can obtain the most exquisite of all the country offers. I can lead the life of a sybarite in Paris, London, Vienna, Naples, or Constantinople; I can be a prince, duke, or marquis, and covered with insignia; I can have this evening the most beautiful and coveted actresses in Paris; I can have every day a feast of Lucullus, and have myself drawn by the finest horses in Paris; I could even in one month, by taking a splendid hôtel, as many knaves and imbeciles do, surround myself with the élite of Paris and of Europe,—even this so-called king, whom I failed to consecrate with the holy vial of the Bank of France, this archduke whom I have just left, has licked my feet. Ah, well, my word of honour!" added M. Pascal, mentally, gnashing his teeth, "I wager there is not a person in the world who suffers as I do this moment. I was in paradise when, as a drudge, I cleaned the shoes of my old rascal usurer in the province. Fortunately, not to masticate empty, I can always, while waiting for better morsels, chew a little on Dutertre. Let us run to the house of my bailiff."
The archduke, after the departure of the financier, hastened, as we have said, to find the Marquise de Miranda, but, to his great astonishment, she was not in the next room.
As this chamber had no other egress than through the study, the prince asked the officers if they had seen the person to whom he had given audience pass. They replied that the lady had come out of the parlour, and had left the palace a little while before the departure of M. Pascal.
Madeleine had really gone away, although it was her first intention to wait for the prince after the conclusion of his interview with M. Pascal.
This is why the marquise did not keep her first resolution.
She reëntered the parlour, after having treated M. Pascal as he well deserved, when, looking into the garden by chance, she saw Frantz, who had asked the favour of a turn in the park, accompanied by Major Butler.
At the sight of Frantz, Madeleine stood petrified with astonishment. She recognised her blond archangel, the object of that ideal and only passion which she had confessed to Sophie Dutertre.