f you were
attacked. He said if you were attacked I might call up the man servant
and the cook; and he showed me where they slept; one down, the other up
stairs in the first floor, close to your wife--your wife--your wife!"

And Tortillard repeated his monotonous song. After a lengthened silence
the Schoolmaster said to him, in a calm voice, but with an air of
desperate determination:

"Listen, boy. I have stayed long enough. Lately--yes, yes, I confess
it--I had a hope which now makes my lot appear still more frightful; the
prison, the _bagne_, the guillotine, are nothing--nothing to what I have
endured since this morning; and I shall have the same to endure always.
Lead me to my wife's room; I have my knife here; I will kill her. I
shall be killed afterwards; but what of that? My hatred swells till it
chokes me; I shall have revenge, and that will console me. What I now
suffer is too much--too much! for me, too, before whom everybody
trembled. Now, lad, if you knew what I endure, even you would pity me.
Even now my brain appears ready to burst; my pulse beats as if my veins
would burst; my head whirls--"

"A cold in your 'knowledge-box,' old chap--that's it; sneeze--that'll
cure you," said Tortillard, with a loud grin; "what say you to a pinch
of snuff, old brick?"

And striking loudly on the back of his left hand, which was clenched, as
if he were tapping on the lid of a snuff-box, he sang:

"J'ai du bon tabac dans ma tabatiere;
J'ai du bon tabac, tu n'en auras pas."

"_Oh, mon Dieu! mon Dieu!_ they will drive me mad!" cried the brigand,
becoming really almost demented by a sort of nervous excitement arising
from bloodthirsty revenge and implacable hatred, which in vain sought to
satiate itself. The exuberant strength of this monster could only be
equalled by the impossibility of satisfying his deadly desires. Let us
imagine a hungry, furious, maddened wolf, teased during a whole day by a
child through the bars of his den, and scenting within two paces of him
a victim who would at once satisfy his hunger and his rage. At the last
taunt of Tortillard the brigand almost lost his senses; unable to reach
his victim, he desired in his frenzy to shed his own blood, for his
blood was stifling him. One moment he resolved to kill himself, and, had
he had a loaded pistol in his hand, he would not have hesitated; he
fumbled in his pocket, and drew out a clasp-knife, opened it, and raised
it to strike; but, q