“I swear it,” answered De Chauxville hoarsely.
Steinmetz was holding on to the back of a high chair with both hands, breathing heavily. His face was still livid. That which had been white in his eyes was quite red.
De Chauxville was crawling toward the revolver in the corner of the room, but he was almost fainting. It was a question whether he would last long enough to reach the fire-arm. There was a bright patch of red in either liver-colored cheek; his lips were working convulsively. And Steinmetz saw him in time. He seized him by the collar of his coat and dragged him back. He placed his foot on the little pistol and faced De Chauxville with glaring eyes. De Chauxville rose to his feet, and for a moment the two men looked into each other’s souls. The Frenchman’s face was twisted with pain. No word was said.
Such was the last reckoning between Karl Steinmetz and the Baron Claude de Chauxville.
The Frenchman went slowly toward the door. He faltered and looked round for a chair. He sat heavily down with a little exclamation of pain and exhaustion, and felt for his pocket-handkerchief. The scented cambric diffused a faint, dainty odor of violets. He sat forward with his two hands on his knees, swaying a little from side to side. Presently he raised his handkerchief to his face. There were tears in his eyes.
Thus the two men waited until De Chauxville had recovered himself sufficiently to take his departure. The air was full of naked human passions. It was rather a grewsome scene.
At last the Frenchman stood slowly up, and with characteristic thought of appearances fingered his torn coat.
“Have you a cloak?” asked Steinmetz.
“No.”
The German went to a cupboard in the wall and selected a long riding-cloak, which he handed to the Frenchman without a word.