"That species of discomfort is entirely unknown to me."
"Ah! you are very lucky!"
At this point, Monsieur Plays turned, and saw his wife looking daggers at him; he remembered what she demanded of him, and continued in an undertone:
"My dear Monsieur Pigeonnier, I must tell you that my wife has sent me to you, because she thinks you—you made sport of her when you told her that you had killed Monsieur Albert Vermoncey in a duel. Women take offence at trifles, you know; and Herminie is very sensitive. You gave her a cigar, too. In short, she's furious with you. So far as I am concerned, I am sure that you had no intention to be disrespectful to her, but she insists that I shall demand satisfaction. It's perfect nonsense; we must arrange it somehow——"
Tobie assumed a most solemn air, and interrupted Monsieur Plays.
"Your excellent wife is right, perfectly right, and I am not surprised that she has told you to kill me. Indeed, I agree with her."
Monsieur Plays shifted from one leg to the other, and looked uneasily at the little man, faltering:
"What! you—you want—to fight?"
"Hush, and listen to me! I tell you again that I should deserve all her anger and yours, if I had acted as she thinks. But it is not so; and now she is only too thoroughly revenged on poor Albert! In our first affair, I thought I had killed him, but I was mistaken. Later, I had my revenge. When I learned of Albert's return to Paris, a month ago, I instantly sent him a challenge by a messenger, and he accepted it. Ah! he was a man of the nicest honor. We fought with pistols, near Pantin. I wounded Albert in the side, and he breathed his last the same day. Tell me, monsieur, if your good wife has any reason now to complain of me, when I have fought twice for her, when to avenge her I have killed one of my most intimate friends?"