“No,” answered Steinmetz, “I think not. It is not as bad as that. But it is bad enough, mein lieber!—it is bad enough! I horsewhipped him first for myself. Gott! how pleasant that was! And then I kicked him out for you.”
“Why?” repeated Paul, with a white face.
“It is a long story,” answered Steinmetz, without looking at him. “He knows too much.”
“About whom?”
“About all of us.”
Paul walked away to the window. He stood looking out, his hands thrust into the side-pockets of his jacket, his broad back turned uncompromisingly upon his companion.
“Tell me the story,” he said. “You need not hurry over it. You need not trouble to—spare me. Only let it be quite complete—once for all.”
Steinmetz winced. He knew the expression of the face that was looking out of the window.
“This man has hated me all his life,” he said. “It began as such things usually do between men—about a woman. It was years ago. I got the better of him, and the good God got the better of me. She died, and De Chauxville forgot her. I—have not forgotten her. But I have tried to do so. It is a slow process, and I have made very little progress; but all that is my affair and beside the question. I merely mention it to show you that De Chauxville had a grudge against me—”
“This is no time for mistaken charity,” interrupted Paul. “Do not try to screen any body. I shall see through it.”