"Take care, Monsieur," cried the count, "do not play thus with my anger; if you push me to extremities, I can forget everything."
"Come," said Émile, shrugging his shoulders with disdain, "do you take me for a timid child that is frightened by threats? You forget who I am, and who you are. Take my advice, let us live together in the bonds of courtesy; any uproar would ruin you, and make you ridiculous."
"Let us make an end of it," said the captain, interposing; "it has already lasted too long. Do not let us attract attention towards us for a foolish affair like this. You wish, Señor, to regain your liberty by our giving you up your parole, do you not?"
"Just so; that is what I ask, Señor; am I wrong?"
"Upon my word, no; in acting thus, you do but obey the instinct that God has placed in the hearts of all men; I cannot blame you."
"What are you doing, Captain?" cried the count, with violence.
"Eh, mon Dieu! My dear count, I am doing what I must do. It must be one of two things—either this stranger is an honest man, in whom we ought to have confidence, or he is a rogue who will deceive us at the first opportunity. In one case, as in the other, we ought to trust his word. If he is honest, he will keep it; if not, he will succeed in escaping."
"Perfectly reasoned, Señor," answered the artist. "The word that I have given you, believe me, binds me more strongly towards you than the best forged chain."
"I am convinced of it, Señor. To terminate this contest, I declare to you here that you are free to act as you like, without our imposing any obstacle, certain that you will not betray men against whom you have no motive of hatred, and to whom you have promised secrecy."
"You have well judged, Señor; I thank you for that opinion, which is true."