"You ask me what brings me, monsieur!" retorted De Brévanne, still standing in front of De Roncherolle. "You ask me that! you mean that you do not divine?"
"Faith, no!"
"When you see once more the man whom you shamelessly outraged, and whom you have eluded for so many years, you do not divine that he comes to demand the satisfaction which you refused him so long ago?"
"Bah! do you really mean it's for that? What! after so long a time, after twenty years, you still think of that business?"
"There is no limitation in matters relating to honor."
"Ah! that makes a difference; you are obstinate about it. I am sorry for that; but did not I admit my fault? Didn't I ask your pardon long ago? Come, Brévanne, come, does not heaven say: 'mercy for all sins?' We were such good friends once."
"Hush! do not appeal to the memory of that friendship, which makes your conduct even more odious. But let us not waste time in useless talk; for twenty years I have been looking for you, to fight with you; I have found you to-day, and I trust that you will no longer refuse to give me satisfaction."
"Since you are bent upon it! Mon Dieu! men are supposed to become reasonable when they grow old; the fact is that they are never reasonable.—Honor! honor! oh! how right Beaumarchais was!—All this is infernally stupid, on my word!"
"Well, I will do whatever you wish; arrange it for—for—ah! ten thousand million thunders! how I suffer! how I suffer!"