Frans. Am I to blame? N’est pas conteur qui veut. I did not profess to be a good story-teller, General.
Van Weller. Silence! I ask you for the last time whether you are willing to relate, in a proper manner, what you know of the affair?
Frans. About Charles Douze? He was born——
Van Weller. Out!
[Andries strikes Frans with the whip, several times.]
Frans. Ai! ai!—oh! General!—I’ll tell you everything!
Van Weller. Stop! (To Frans.) Now go on, and think of your back.
Frans. The old gentleman had come back from an assembly at Court, the evening before, very much put out. They said he had had a quarrel, and was to fight a duel next day. I only know this by tradition, as you may say, because I and the young master were under arrest, locked up in the summer house, because we had stolen apri——
Van Weller. Never mind the apricots, and tell me about the duel.
Frans. Well, then—my master must have slept very badly that night. This, too, I only know by way of tradition; and since tradition represents the border-land between the dark region of myth and the daylight of history——