Samuel Brohl remained inert and rigid.
“Perhaps you want to try the strength of my wrists,” continued Camille. “Very well, I will give you that satisfaction.”
And, with these words, he seized him round his waist, summoned all his strength in order to lift him, and deposited him at full length on the sofa.
He examined him again, and said: “Will this tragi-comedy last much longer? Shall I not find a secret to resuscitate you? Listen to me, monsieur. I love with all my soul the woman that you pretend to love. Does that not suffice? Monsieur, you are a Polish adventurer, and I have as much admiration for your social talents as I have little esteem for yourself. Does that not suffice yet? I would not, however, lift my hand to you. I entreat you to consider the affront received.”
It seemed as if the dead man trembled slightly, and Camille exclaimed: “Thank God! this time you have given sign of life, and the insult found the way to your heart. I would be charmed to restore you to your senses. I await your commands. The day, the place, and the weapons, I leave to your choice. And, stay! You can count on my absolute discretion. No one, I give you my word, shall learn from me that your fainting-fit had ears, and resented insults. Here is my address, monsieur.”
And, drawing from his pocket a visiting-card, he tried to slip it into the cold, listless, pendent hand, which let it fall to the ground.
“What obstinacy!” he said. “As you will, M. le Comte; I am at the end of my eloquence.”
He turned his back, seated himself in a chair, and taking a paper, he unfolded it. Meanwhile the door opened, and Mme. de Lorcy appeared.
“What are you doing here, Camille?” she exclaimed.
“You see, madame,” he answered, “I am waiting until this great comedian has finished playing his piece.”