“Well, generally speaking, he does. How can he remedy the matter? He can only challenge his wife’s lover. A duel is fought in which neither of the opponents are killed, they wound each other slightly, embrace, weep, have coffee together, and for the future consent to share the lady’s affections amicably.”
“Veramente!” I exclaimed, with a forced laugh, inwardly cursing his detestable flippancy; “that is the fashionable mode of taking vengeance?”
“Absolutely the one respectable way of doing it,” he replied; “it is only the canaille who draw heart’s blood in earnest.”
Only the canaille! I looked at him fixedly. His smiling eyes met mine with a frank and fearless candor. Evidently he was not ashamed of his opinions, he rather gloried in them. As he stood there with the warm sunlight playing upon his features he seemed the very type of youthful and splendid manhood; an Apollo in exterior—in mind a Silenus. My soul sickened at the sight of him. I felt that the sooner this strong treacherous life was crushed the better; there would be one traitor less in the world at any rate. The thought of my dread but just purpose passed over me like the breath of a bitter wind—a tremor shook my nerves. My face must have betrayed some sign of my inward emotion, for Ferrari exclaimed:
“You are fatigued, conte? You are ill! Pray take my arm!”
He extended it as he spoke. I put it gently but firmly aside.
“It is nothing,” I said, coldly; “a mere faintness which often overcomes me, the remains of a recent illness.” Here I glanced at my watch; the afternoon was waning rapidly.
“If you will excuse me,” I continued, “I will now take leave of you. Regarding the pictures you have permitted me to select, my servant shall call for them this evening to save you the trouble of sending them.”
“It is no trouble—” began Ferrari.
“Pardon me,” I interrupted him; “you must allow me to arrange the matter in my own way. I am somewhat self-willed, as you know.”