Pierre shook his head.
"You will retain the enclosed letter?"
Pierre nodded.
The count went tip-toeing to the door, and returned to Tsuna the pretentious chit-book. Pierre was apparently fixed in an attitude of melancholy.
"Can these letters have told you anything worse?" questioned the gentle voice.
"Yes," said Pierre, dully. "It is worse. She is to be married next Wednesday,—and with her own consent. She wishes it. Next Wednesday."
Ronsard did not answer. He was trying to look sad.
"Wednesday, I tell you," repeated Pierre, now lifting bloodshot eyes. "Next Wednesday! Five days! This is Friday, is it not? Yes." He stopped now to count the days on shaking fingers. "Five more days and she will be his wife. That woman I love,—that pure flower to whom even my honorable devotion seemed desecration! She will lie in that old man's arms,—she will be his wife! God! God! Man!" he screamed, striking the table with one frantic fist, and then rising to hurl himself in torment about the room, "don't stand there screwing into my brain with your fishy eyes! Have you ever known love—do you understand jealousy—have you heard of—hell?"
"At your age I knew all three," said Ronsard, calmly. "I went through all, and I live, I eat, I intrigue, I am happy. So shall it be with you, madman!"
Pierre threw back his head in a rude clamor, meant for laughter. He was passing near Ronsard at the instant. The elder man reached out and caught his wrist. "Now, Pierre Le Beau, stand still and hear what I have to say!"