“You are wrong, Alphonse, as wrong as you once were about your wife. I don’t fear you. I waited to see if you hated me enough to take trouble for my death.”
“And you are satisfied that you deserve it?” said the count, gravely.
“I suppose so, according to one law,” returned Harley, coldly. “By the law of vengeance you have your rights. Take them. I’m weary of life.”
“Pierce Harley,” said the count, solemnly, “my men are round you, and you are doomed to die. In the presence of God, tell the truth. What had I done to you that you should turn traitor to me as you did, trying your best to ruin one who never done you aught but benefits.”
Harley turned his eyes gloomily round the apartment till they rested on the lovely face of Diana. Then he said:
“You see that girl. As she looks now, thirty-five years ago looked her mother, and I loved her before she ever saw you. You have your answer.”
“This is no answer,” said the count, fiercely. “What had I done to you to provoke such treason?”
“I loved Diana Harley, fool. She was my cousin by blood, and I loved her before you saw her. I was poor, you were rich. She went to France, secretly betrothed to me, and she broke her troth, forced to it by Oxford, her father. You knew she did not love you. What do you Frenchmen care for love in a young wife? She loved me first, and I loved her. If I had not, do you think I could have forgiven her the wrong she did me? I did forgive her, when I saw her in Paris, but I swore revenge on you and I have kept my oath.”
The count had listened to the other with iron composure, but with perfect courtesy, not seeking to interrupt him in any manner. When Harley had finished there was a short silence, broken by the count.
“Then I am to understand, monsieur, that you do me the honor to avow that you sought my house for the deliberate purpose of destroying my happiness and ruining my wife.”