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"No, no, Lotbiniere, none of it to white men. Not even to blacks and coolies, but certainly none of it to white men." "You speak from India where all French naturally are high-caste." A look of pain came over Repentigny's features. "No, Michel, that is not the reason. Alas! I once despised a man of lower degree. My God, how could I do it again!" And his head dropped upon his breast in profound dejection. Lotbiniere started and paused, looking at him with great sympathy, a cruel old remembrance awaking. "By the curse of heaven, I have never forgotten it," continued the other. "Stay, stay," said Lotbiniere, leaning over and softly laying a hand on his arm, "you were blameless; young blood was not to be controlled." "It haunts me for ever," Repentigny went on; "in my wanderings all around the world I see the blood of poor Philibert. I see again that steep street of old Quebec. I hold again in my hand the requisition for his rooms. I see the anger on his face, high-spirited citizen that he was, that I should choose me out the best in his house and treat its master as I did. I feel again my inconsiderate arrogance swelling my veins. I hear his merited reproaches and maledictions. Rage and evil pride overpower me, I draw and lunge. Alas! the flood of life-blood rushes up the blade and warms my hand here, _here_." "Calm yourself." "He follows me." "Nonsense, Pierre. No one is present," exclaimed Lotbiniere in a tone of decision. "Philibert's son. I met him in Quebec before I fled to France. I met him in Paris before I fled to the East. I met him in Pondicherry. He settled near me in Mahe. Now he is in Paris again. It is dreadful to be reminded of your crime by an avenger. My death, when it comes, will be by his hand, Michel." "Have no fear. In twenty hours we can have him safe in a place whence such as he never come out." "That would be more terrible still. Shall I further wrong the wronged? God would be against me as well as remorse. No, when he strikes it will be just. I do not fear his sword, but the memory of his father's blood, and that would grow redder on my hand if I injured the son. Oh, Michel, is the Golden Dog still over the door of Philibert's house in Quebec?" "Yes, Pierre; forget these things. Take a glass of wine." "I remember its inscription"-- "_I am a dog gnawing a bone: In gnawing it I take my repose. A day will come which has not come, When I will bit
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