“Yes,” said the old gentleman, well pleased to find a go-between who perhaps might say his say for him.
“Very well; go into Amélie’s bedroom,” said the controller of excise, likewise well pleased at the prospect of a duel which possibly might make Mme. de Bargeton a widow, while it put a bar between her and Lucien, the cause of the quarrel. Then Châtelet went to M. de Chandour.
“Stanislas,” he said, “here comes Bargeton to call you to account, no doubt, for the things you have been saying about Naïs. Go into your wife’s room, and behave, both of you, like gentlemen. Keep the thing quiet, and make a great show of politeness, behave with phlegmatic British dignity, in short.”
In another minute Stanislas and Châtelet went to Bargeton.
“Sir,” said the injured husband, “do you say that you discovered Mme. de Bargeton and M. de Rubempré in an equivocal position?”
“M. Chardon,” corrected Stanislas, with ironical stress; he did not take Bargeton seriously.
“So be it,” answered the other. “If you do not withdraw your assertions at once before the company now in your house, I must ask you to look for a second. My father-in-law, M. de Nègrepelisse, will wait upon you at four o’clock to-morrow morning. Both of us may as well make our final arrangements, for the only way out of the affair is the one that I have indicated. I choose pistols, as the insulted party.”
This was the speech that M. de Bargeton had ruminated on the way; it was the longest that he had ever made in life. He brought it out without excitement or vehemence, in the simplest way in the world. Stanislas turned pale. “After all, what did I see?” said he to himself.
Put between the shame of eating his words before the whole town, and hideous fear, that caught him by the throat with burning fingers; confronted by this mute personage, who seemed in no humor to stand nonsense, Stanislas chose the more remote peril.
“All right. To-morrow morning,” he said, thinking that the matter might be arranged somehow or other.