"The deuce you are! I don't understand at all. Are you furious because you aren't wounded?"
"Bah! I am not talking about the duel! It's that woman I am thinking of! that woman who has mocked at me and my love! who hoped, perhaps, that I would be killed!"
"Oho! so it was on a woman's account that you fought. They have the very devil in them, these women, to insist upon it that we should all fight for them!"
"I am going to her now, to confound her.—Whip up your horse, driver; you may drop me at Rue Neuve-Vivienne.—Do you, Tobie, go at once and find that messenger, and get my letter. You will understand that it must not be delivered to my father, for it would cause him unnecessary anxiety."
Tobie made no reply. He recalled what he had told Paul to do, and wondered what the result would be.
"Oh! these women! these women!" cried Albert; "I am utterly unable to understand this one. What coquetry! what perfidy!"
"It's Madame Baldimer, isn't it?"
"Yes; it is she! Oh! I will tell the whole world of her shameful conduct! Our homage is not enough for her; she must have our blood!"
"Thanks! she shan't have mine; I wouldn't prick myself with a pin for her. But, by the way—what about our duel—concerning Madame Plays?"
"Tell her that you killed me."