“First learn, father, what are the duties which would keep me here; then you shall know those which may take me away from you, from my daughters, and from my other child.”
“What other child?”
“The son of my old friend, the Indian Prince.”
“Djalma? Is there anything the matter with him?”
“Father, he frightens me. I told you, father, of his mad and unhappy passion for Mdlle. de Cardoville.”
“Does that frighten you, my son?” said the old man, looking at the marshal with surprise. “Djalma is only eighteen, and, at that age, one love drives away another.”
“You have no idea of the ravages which the passion has already made in the ardent, indomitable boy; sometimes, fits of savage ferocity follow the most painful dejection. Yesterday, I came suddenly upon him; his eyes were bloodshot, his features contracted with rage; yielding to an impulse of mad furry, he was piercing with his poinard a cushion of red cloth, whilst he exclaimed, panting for breath, ‘Ha blood!—I will have blood!’ ‘Unhappy boy!’ I said to him, ‘what means this insane passion?’ ‘I’m killing the man!’ replied he, in a hollow and savage voice: it is thus he designates his supposed rival.”
“There is indeed something terrible,” said the old man, “in such a passion, in such a heart.”
“At other times,” resumed the marshal, “it is against Mdlle. de Cardoville that his rage bursts forth; and at others, against himself. I have been obliged to remove his weapons, for a man who came with him from Java, and who appears much attached to him, has informed me that he suspected him of entertaining some thoughts of suicide.”
“Unfortunate boy!”