“Cécile came to me; questioned me. I told her you were dead. It is my fault. You see, Marc, all the fault is mine. She had been faithful to her marriage vow, till certain news of your death reached her. Then she was free to marry. Alas! that mine was the tongue that gave her the freedom!”
“Curse you, Pierre Crépin!”
He was becoming terribly excited. I begged him to be calm.
“I am a man, Marc. I can die like one. If you were reasonable, you would know that I have always been your good friend. You are unreasonable—”
“I am unreasonable? I shall live only for vengeance! First, I will kill you; then greybeard André; then—then her!”
“And then, Marc?”
“Myself!”
“You have your pistol. I have no weapon. You will not shoot me in cold blood? That is not Marc Debois, even now!”
“Fetch one!” he shouted, imperatively. “No! Stay! I cannot trust you! We will draw lots for this!”
It was useless to reason, to expostulate, to advise. He was mad. It remained to fight. I commended the issue to Providence, and prayed that neither of us, unfit for death, miraculously saved and brought back to the sound of human voices, might fall.