restraint impossible to me. He provoked
me deliberately and publicly. He put upon me the very grossest affront,
and... to-morrow morning in the Bois... we meet."

He faltered a little at the end, fully conscious of the hostile
atmosphere in which he suddenly found himself. Hostility from M. de
Kercadiou, the latter's earlier change of manner had already led him
to expect; the hostility of mademoiselle came more in the nature of a
surprise.

He began to understand what difficulties the course to which he was
committed must raise up for him. A fresh obstacle was to be flung across
the path which he had just cleared, as he imagined. Yet his pride and
his sense of the justice due to be done admitted of no weakening.

In bitterness he realized now, as he looked from uncle to niece--his
glance, usually so direct and bold, now oddly furtive--that though
to-morrow he might kill Andre-Louis, yet even by his death Andre-Louis
would take vengeance upon him. He had exaggerated nothing in reaching
the conclusion that this Andre-Louis Moreau was the evil genius of his
life. He saw now that do what he would, kill him even though he
might, he could never conquer him. The last word would always be with
Andre-Louis Moreau. In bitterness, in rage, and in humiliation--a thing
almost unknown to him--did he realize it, and the realization steeled his
purpose for all that he perceived its futility.

Outwardly he showed himself calm and self-contained, properly suggesting
a man regretfully accepting the inevitable. It would have been as
impossible to find fault with his bearing as to attempt to turn him from
the matter to which he was committed. And so M. de Kercadiou perceived.

"My God!" was all that he said, scarcely above his breath, yet almost in
a groan.

M. de La Tour d'Azyr did, as always, the thing that sensibility demanded
of him. He took his leave. He understood that to linger where his
news had produced such an effect would be impossible, indecent. So he
departed, in a bitterness comparable only with his erstwhile optimism,
the sweet fruit of hope turned to a thing of gall even as it touched
his lips. Oh, yes; the last word, indeed, was with Andre-Louis
Moreau--always!

Uncle and niece looked at each other as he passed out, and there was
horror in the eyes of both. Aline's pallor was deathly almost, and
standing there now she wrung her hands as if in pain.

"Why did you not ask him--beg him..." She broke off.

"To what e