"December 31st, 1834, at eleven in the evening," Valentine remarked.
"Yes; the rain lashed the window panes, the wind whistled in the long passages. I was awaiting your coming. You arrived. Then, as now, I was face to face with ruin. I wished to die: you prevented me."
"It is true. Did I do wrong?"
"Perhaps," the count said in a hollow voice; "but these are the words you made use of."
"Allow me to repeat them myself; for, in spite of the fifteen years that have elapsed, Louis, that scene is as present to my mind as if it took place yesterday. After proving to you that you did wrong to despair," Valentine said in a solemn voice, "that all was not lost, I replied to a final objection you raised, 'Be easy, Louis, be easy. If I have not fulfilled my promise in two years, I will hand you the pistols myself, and then—' 'Then?' you asked. 'Then,' I added, 'you shall not kill yourself alone.' 'I accept,' you answered. Those were the words that passed between us on that night, which decided your future and made a man of you. Is it not so? Have I forgotten the slightest detail? Answer."
"No, you have forgotten nothing, Valentine."
"Well?"
"Well, now that I have faithfully fulfilled the promise I made you, I come to claim of you the complete execution of our compact."
"I do not comprehend you."
"What! You do not comprehend me?" the count said, bounding from his butaca.