“I beg your pardon.... I am a scoundrel.... I wanted to force you to take my name, to share my existence.... It was cowardly and base of me.... Still, there was more in me, believe me, than wicked designs.... Oh, I hear your heart beating ... do not tremble!... You will never be in danger from any one ... it is not only your eyes that protect you: there is the sound of your voice, there is your silence, there is the air you breathe, your mere presence.... Forgive me....”
He went away, She dimly saw him cross the window-rail and presently heard the sound of his steps as he walked down the gravel-path in the garden.
Gilberte rushed to the door. She could not have stayed for another instant in the solitude of that room.
It was an intolerable agony, of which she felt the grip even more now that Simare was no longer there. Where should she go? To Mme. de la Vaudraye’s? She remembered vaguely that it was not one of her “evenings,” because of the fair. No matter. She wanted people, lights, bustle, men and women in whose presence she could master her fears and pluck up courage.
She ran to her bedroom, put on her hat and cloak.... But no, she dared not go out....
A noise came from the square in front of the Logis, on the town side; the noise of an altercation, of a struggle. She drew back the curtains. Two men were fighting under her windows. In her fright, she flew to the bolt, locked herself in and crouched down in the furthest corner of her room. Her instinct, her weakness impelled her to hide herself, to know nothing of what was happening, to wait.... But the din increased. There were shouts and moans.
Then she was ashamed of her cowardice. It was impossible for her to continue in that nervous inactivity. She wanted to interfere, to help, if there were still time. Bravely, she opened the door, went down the stairs, walked out into the square and up to the combatants.
By the light of the lamp she recognized Beaufrelant and Le Hourteulx.
Rolling on the ground, covered with mud, hatless, their clothes all disarranged, they were fighting with a sort of mad rage, with the stubbornness of two mortal enemies rejoicing in an opportunity of vengeance long deferred. They struck at each other in turns, collared each other, bashed each other’s faces with their fists, wrestled violently. And this amid insults and exclamations of triumph:
“Here, you villain, take that!”