There was, Zilah remembered well, quite near there, a sort of narrow valley (where the Mayor of Maisons was said to have royally entertained Louis XIV and his courtiers, as they were returning from Marly), a lovely spot, surrounded by grassy slopes covered with violets, a little shady, Virgilian wood, where he and Marsa had dreamed away many happy hours. They had christened it The Vale o f Violets. How many memories were in that sweet name, each one of which stabbed and exasperated Zilah, rising before him like so many spectres.
He hastened his steps, repeating:
“He is there! She is waiting for him! Her lover is there!”
At the end of the road, before the villa, closed and silent like the old church, he stopped. He had reached his destination; but what was he about to do, he who—who up to this time had protected his name from the poisonous breath of scandal?
He was about to kill Menko, or to be killed himself. A duel! But what was the need of proposing a duel, when, exercising his rights as a husband, he could punish both the man and the woman?
He did not hesitate long, however, but advanced to the gate, saying, aloud:
“I have a right to enter my own house.”
The ringing of the bell was answered by the barking of Duna, Bundas, and Ortog, who tore furiously at their iron chains.
A man presently appeared on the other side of the gate. It was a domestic whom Andras did not know and had never seen.
“Whom do you wish to see?” asked the man.