“‘Let us go,’ said the Count.
“They walked in the direction of the Rue de Provence. By the time he arrived there, Vassigny’s emotion had attained the highest pitch, and his legs bent under him as he ascended the stairs.
“A servant introduced the two men into an elegant drawing-room.
“There was a moment of terrible silence: Marsanne seemed to have shaken off his gloomy despair: inflexible resolution was legible in his eyes. Vassigny, on the contrary, appeared exhausted and overcome, a criminal awaiting sentence of death.
“‘You have seen Madame de Marsanne this morning,’ said the husband, with strange solemnity.
“‘Madame de Marsanne!... In Heaven’s name, you are mistaken!’ cried Vassigny. But his tone of voice, and the wild expression of his features, fully confirmed the Count’s words.
“‘You have seen Madame de Marsanne this morning,’ repeated the Count. ‘I know, sir, that as a man of honour, you are incapable of betraying a lady’s secret; but I prefer the evidence of my eyes even to your word.’
“‘Well, sir, my life is yours—take it!’ cried Vassigny, casting towards heaven a glance of rage and despair. Marsanne gazed at the young man for a brief space, and then resumed.
“‘Listen to me, M. de Vassigny, The law authorised me to assassinate you, but that is not a gentleman’s revenge. The law further authorised me to have my dishonour certified by a commissary of police, and to drag you before the tribunals for condemnation—to six months’ imprisonment and a few thousand francs’ damages!—Mockery!! My instinct of honour rejected such an alternative. An honourable man revenges himself of an outrage by meeting his offender bare-breasted, and with equal weapons. You think as I do, sir?’
“‘Your seconds, your time, your arms?’ cried Vassigny, all his courage revived by this appeal to the point of honour.