"Voulez‑vous bien vous en aller bien vite?"
"Une autre fois!" says Barty.
"Allez‑vous en, je vous dis!"
"Après‑demain!"
"Vous ... ne ... voulez ... pas ... vous ... en ... aller?" says the soldier, on tiptoe, his chest against Barty's stomach, his nose almost up to Barty's chin, glaring up like a fiend and poising his coupe‑choux for a death‑stroke.
"Non, sacré petit pousse‑cailloux du diable!" roars Barty.
"Eh bien, restez où vous êtes!" and the little man plunged back into the fray on the opposite side—and no blood was shed after all.
Barty dreamt of this adventure, and woke up laughing at it in the small hours of that night. Then, suddenly, in the dark, he remembered the horror of what had happened. It overwhelmed him. He realized, as in a sudden illuminating flash, what life meant for him hence‑forward—life that might last for so many years.
Vitality is at its lowest ebb at that time of night; though the brain is quick to perceive, and so clear that its logic seems inexorable.
It was hell. It was not to be borne a moment longer. It must be put an end to at once. He tried to feel the north, but could not. He would kill himself then and there, while his aunt was away; so that the horror of the sight of him, after, should at least be spared her.