“You speak to me, by God, as though you scorned me!” cried the husband.
The man’s passion was always formidable; she had often looked on upon its violence with a thrill, it had been one ingredient in her fascination; and she was now surprised to behold him, as from afar off, gesticulating but impotent. His fury might be dangerous like a torrent or a gust of wind, but it was inhuman; it might be feared or braved, it should never be respected. And with that there came in her a sudden glow of courage and that readiness to die which attends so closely upon all strong passions.
“I do scorn you,“ she said.
“What is that?” he cried.
“I scorn you,” she repeated, smiling.
“You love another man!” said he.
“With all my soul,” was her reply.
The wine-seller roared aloud so that the house rang and shook with it.
“Is this the ——?” he cried, using a foul word, common in the South; and he seized the young countryman and dashed him to the ground. There he lay for the least interval of time insensible; thence fled from the house, the most terrified person in the county. The heavy measure had escaped from his hands, splashing the wine high upon the wall. Paradou caught it. “And you?” he roared to his wife, giving her the same name in the feminine, and he aimed at her the deadly missile. She expected it, motionless, with radiant eyes.