“Why?” echoed Chatellerault, his ferocity welling up again. Then, swinging round, he came straight at me, as a bull makes a charge.
“Monsieur de Bardelys!” he blazed.
“Bardelys!” gasped Saint-Eustache in the background.
“What now?” I inquired coldly, turning from my friends.
“All that you said may be true, and I may be doomed, but I swear before God that you shall not go unpunished.”
“I think, monsieur, that you run a grave risk of perjuring yourself!” I laughed.
“You shall render me satisfaction ere we part!” he cried.
“If you do not deem that paper satisfaction enough, then, monsieur, forgive me, but your greed transcends all possibility of being ever satisfied.”
“The devil take your paper and your estates! What shall they profit me when I am dead?”
“They may profit your heirs,” I suggested.