st bitterly blamed, Andre-Louis. That
low-born provincial lout pursued him like a Nemesis, was become indeed
the evil genius of his life. That was it--the evil genius of his life!
And it was odds that on Monday... He did not like to think of Monday.
He was not particularly afraid of death. He was as brave as his kind in
that respect, too brave in the ordinary way, and too confident of his
skill, to have considered even remotely such a possibility as that
of dying in a duel. It was only that it would seem like a proper
consummation of all the evil that he had suffered directly or indirectly
through this Andre-Louis Moreau that he should perish ignobly by his
hand. Almost he could hear that insolent, pleasant voice making the
flippant announcement to the Assembly on Monday morning.

He shook off the mood, angry with himself for entertaining it. It was
maudlin. After all Chabrillane and La Motte-Royau were quite exceptional
swordsmen, but neither of them really approached his own formidable
calibre. Reaction began to flow, as he drove out through country
lanes flooded with pleasant September sunshine. His spirits rose. A
premonition of victory stirred within him. Far from fearing Monday's
meeting, as he had so unreasonably been doing, he began to look forward
to it. It should afford him the means of setting a definite term to
this persecution of which he had been the victim. He would crush
this insolent and persistent flea that had been stinging him at every
opportunity. Borne upward on that wave of optimism, he took presently a
more hopeful view of his case with Aline.

At their first meeting a month ago he had used the utmost frankness with
her. He had told her the whole truth of his motives in going that night
to the Feydau; he had made her realize that she had acted unjustly
towards him. True he had gone no farther.

But that was very far to have gone as a beginning. And in their
last meeting, now a fortnight old, she had received him with frank
friendliness. True, she had been a little aloof. But that was to be
expected until he quite explicitly avowed that he had revived the hope
of winning her. He had been a fool not to have returned before to-day.

Thus in that mood of new-born confidence--a confidence risen from the
very ashes of despondency--came he on that Sunday morning to Meudon. He
was gay and jovial with M. de Kercadiou what time he waited in the salon
for mademoiselle to show herself. He pronounced with