The marquis wrapped himself in his mantle and hastily left the barber's shop. Touquet remained alone for some time, thoughtful and depressed; at length he rose abruptly.
"What does it matter after all," said he, "whether Blanche be with Urbain or the marquis? Shall I be foolish enough to sympathize with the love of two children? In keeping this young girl with me I hoped to avoid all suspicion. But at last I shall be relieved of the burden that oppresses me. Come let's put up this gold; the marquis has promised me as much more—and I would have refused him. No. My destiny must be accomplished; this metal has always served as its compass. I was only sixteen years old when it caused me to commit actions which drew down upon me my father's curse; arrived in Paris, which I had yearned to know, I soon found myself robbed of everything I possessed by people who were more adroit than myself; I had been deceived and I wished to make others suffer as I had suffered. I gave scope to my talents. Up to that time I had done no great wrong—but this cursed thirst for gold. Ten years have passed and have not effaced from my memory that horrible night—when—since then I have not tasted a moment's peace. I will return to my birthplace and if my father is still alive I will try to obtain his pardon; perhaps then I may regain quiet of mind. But if he knew how I enriched myself."
The barber again gave himself to his reflections. Soon Saint-Eustache's clock struck one. Touquet slowly took the money from the table, and, after locking it in his room upstairs, he went to Blanche's chamber and knocked at the door.
The poor little girl was not asleep; she had been too greatly excited by the events of the evening. She still seemed to see the stranger seated near her, holding her hand and looking at her with an expression that she could not define. She felt oppressed; it seemed to her that she should never see Urbain more. The marquis' figure appeared constantly between herself and Urbain, and the sadness the latter had felt on leaving her heightened her own premonitions. Yielding to this indefinite anxiety, often harder to bear than a real sorrow, Blanche could not rest, and the sound of a knock at her door in the middle of the night awoke in her fresh terror.
"Who is there?" she cried, in a faltering voice.
"It is I, Blanche," answered the barber; "open the door. I have something of importance to tell you."
The young girl, who had recognized Touquet's voice, rose, hastily put on a dressing gown, and opened the door. The barber held the lamp in his hand and avoided looking at the young girl, who, on the contrary, wished to question him and said,—
"Mercy, my good friend, what has happened?"
These words, "my good friend," uttered in Blanche's sweet voice, always agitated Touquet; he forced himself to hide his feelings.
"Calm yourself, Blanche," he said, "and listen to me; Urbain has had a quarrel tonight—a duel."