“Silence, man!” cried Armstrong excitedly. “Pacey, no more of this! Where is Leronde? He must be set free at once. My honour is at stake.”
“His what?” cried Pacey, bursting into a roar of ironical laughter. “My God! His honour! You adulterous dog, you talk to me of your honour and duelling, and all that cursed, sickly, contemptible code that ought to have been dead and buried, and wondered at by us as a relic of the dark ages—you talk to me of that? Why, do you know what it means? First and foremost, murdering Cornel Thorpe: for, as sure as heaven’s above us, that organ-man will shoot you like the dog you are, and in killing you he’ll kill that poor girl. I swear it. She can’t help it. She gave her love to you, poor lassie, and she’s the kind of woman who loves once and for all. There’s the first of it. As for you, well, the best end of you is that you should be buried at once, out of the way, as you would be if I let you go to meet this man.”
“If you let me?” raged Armstrong.
“Yes, if I let you; for I won’t. Why, you’re mad. That Jezebel has turned your brain, and I’ll have you in a strait waistcoat, and then in a padded room, before I’ll let you go to save your honour and his. Ha, ha! His honour! The Italian greyhound! He never took any notice of his wife till he found she had a lover, but was after as many light-famed creatures as there are cards in the devil’s books. Then—his honour! Ha, ha! his honour! Why, the whole gang of French and Italian monkeys never knew what honour is, and never will. Now then, I said I’d thrash you, and I have. I only wish Dellatoria had jolly well fractured your skull, so as to make you an invalid for six months. Look here; I’ve locked up Leronde, I’ll lock up you, and if the Conte comes here, I’ll kick him downstairs.”
“You are mad. I must meet him.”
“I’m not mad, and you shan’t meet him.”
“You mean well, Pacey, but it is folly to go on like this. Run back and set Leronde at liberty.”
“I’m going to do what I like, not what you like,” cried Pacey fiercely, pulling out a knife; “and first of all, I’ll finish that cursed picture.”
He swung the great easel round, and in a few minutes had slashed the canvas to ribbons, and torn it from the frame.
“There’s an end of that!” he roared.