To gain time Stolphe sat down, for he had a fear that Jean Jacques was armed, and might be a madman armed—there were his feet bare on the brown painted boards. They looked so strange, so uncanny. He surely must be a madman if he wanted to do harm to Hugo Stolphe; for Hugo Stolphe had only “kept” the woman who had left her husband, not because of himself, but because of another man altogether—one George Masson. Had not Carmen herself told him that before she and he lived together? What grudge could Carmen’s husband have against Hugo Stolphe?
Jean Jacques sat down also, and, leaning on the table said: “Once I was a fool and let the other man escape-George Masson it was. Because of what he did, my wife left me.”
His voice became husky, but he shook his throat, as it were, cleared it, and went on. “I won’t let you go. I was going to kill George Masson—I had him like that!” He opened and shut his hand with a gesture of fierce possession. “But I did not kill him. I let him go. He was so clever—cleverer than you will know how to be. She said to me—my wife said to me, when she thought I had killed him, ‘Why did you not fight him? Any man would have fought him.’ That was her view. She was right—not to kill without fighting. That is why I did not kill you at once when I knew.”
“When you knew what?” Stolphe was staring at the madman.
“When I knew you were you. First I saw that ring—that ring on your hand. It was my wife’s. I gave it to her the first New Year after we married. I saw it on your hand when you were drinking at the bar next door. Then I asked them your name. I knew it. I had read your letters to my wife—”
“Your wife once on a time!”
Jean Jacques’ eyes swam red. “My wife always and always—and at the last there in my arms.” Stolphe temporized. “I never knew you. She did not leave you because of me. She came to me because—because I was there for her to come to, and you weren’t there. Why do you want to do me any harm?” He still must be careful, for undoubtedly the man was mad—his eyes were too bright.
“You were the death of her,” answered Jean Jacques, leaning forward. “She was most ill-ah, who would not have been sorry for her! She was poor. She had been to you—but to live with a woman day by day, but to be by her side when the days are done, and then one morning to say, ‘Au revoir till supper’ and then go and never come back, and to take money and rings that belonged to her!... That was her death—that was the end of Carmen Barbille; and it was your fault.”
“You would do me harm and not hurt her! Look how she treated you—and others.”
Jean Jacques half rose from his seat in sudden rage, but he restrained himself, and sat down again. “She had one husband—only one. It was Jean Jacques Barbille. She could only treat one as she treated me—me, her husband. But you, what had you to do with that! You used her—so!” He made a motion as though to stamp out an insect with his foot. “Beautiful, a genius, sick and alone—no husband, no child, and you used her so! That is why I shall kill you to-night. We will fight for it.”