"Done well? to refuse to give satisfaction to the man whom he has insulted? done well to run away, to act like a coward? Ah! I don't understand you, Monsieur de Merval!"
"Please listen to me calmly. In the first place, Roncherolle is not a coward, as we all know; if he runs away from you, it isn't because he's afraid of death. Mon Dieu! he told you so himself; ruined, suffering torture in his bed three-fourths of the time, do you think that you would punish him by depriving him of life? No. You will kill him, for you know very well that he will never aim his weapon at you; you will kill him—you have a right to, and no one would consider it a crime on your part; but when you have accomplished this act of vengeance, will you be any happier? No, no! on the contrary, you will be much less so. I could have understood this duel in the days just after the insult, although it would still have caused you remorse in the future; but after twenty years, when the heroes of the episode are so different from what they were, when it seems that Providence has undertaken to punish the guilty, you would hunt down a miserable wretch, who for twenty years past must have cursed a misstep which deprived him of a genuine friend, whom he has never replaced! No, no; do not do it; leave time to act; it is inexorable; and when we forgive those who have offended us, be sure that every day time takes it upon itself to make them understand how heavily they have laden their future with remorse and regret by yielding in their youth to a guilty passion, a guilty sentiment!"
The count listened to Monsieur de Merval without interrupting him, and seemed to reflect deeply. After quite a long silence, he raised his eyes to Monsieur de Merval's face, and gazed fixedly at him, saying:
"But that is not all, you have not told me all that you know; there is something else."
"What? what do you mean? why do you suppose that I know anything else of interest to you?"
"Because now I remember your questions. I do not know how you were able to discover a secret which had remained a secret to me down to this day; however, I mean this—that of that criminal connection—between Roncherolle and her who bore my name—there was—there was a child born; is that true?"
"Yes, that is true."
"Ah! you knew it then, did you?"
"Chance, one of those circumstances which one cannot foresee, led to my discovering that mystery; this is how it happened: a year after you left your wife,—observe that date, a year after, and I am certain of what I tell you,—I had been passing a few days at the country house of a friend at Ermenonville. Finding myself in the neighborhood of the lovely spot where Rosseau's tomb is situated, I took it into my head to stop there; in my childhood I had been taken to visit that village, which is overflowing with reminiscences of the illustrious author of Emile. But I find that one sees with more pleasure and interest at thirty years than at fifteen whatever speaks to the mind, the soul and the heart.—I had taken rooms at the best inn, which was, I believe, the only one in the village; I intended to pass two days at Ermenonville, to revisit the park, the desert, the island, in fact all those charming and poetic spots which one never tires of visiting. On the evening of my arrival there was a terrible storm. I was, I remember, in the common room of the inn; the rain was falling in torrents, and although it was September, it was quite cold, and I was glad to find a huge fire in an enormous fireplace.
"Suddenly we heard the noise of carriage wheels, which approached and stopped in front of the inn. Great surprise and great delight was felt by the inn-keeper and his wife, who did not expect guests so late, especially in such horrible weather. They ran to the door and I retained my seat in front of the fire. Soon the inn-keeper's wife returned and said to me: