convinced, the sympathy
which Chevalier de Moranges was expressing by passionate sighs and
glances was the merest hypocrisy. Had he been alone, nothing would have
prevented his dashing head foremost into this imbroglio, in scorn of
consequence, convinced that his appearance would be as terrible in its
effect as the head of Medusa. But the presence of the widow restrained
him. Why ruin his future and dry up the golden spring which had just
begun to gush before his eyes, for the sake of taking part in a
melodrama? Prudence and self-interest kept him in the side scenes.

The tears of the fair one and the glances of the chevalier awoke no
repentance in the breast of the commander; on the contrary, he began to
vent his anger in terms still more energetic. He strode up and down the
oaken floor till it shook under his spurred heels; he stuck his plumed
hat on the side of his head, and displayed the manners of a bully in a
Spanish comedy. Suddenly he seemed to have come to a swift resolution:
the expression of his face changed from rage to icy coldness, and walking
up to Angelique, he said, with a composure more terrible than the wildest
fury--

"My rival's name?"

"You shall never learn it from me!"

"Madame, his name?"

"Never! I have borne your insults too long. I am not responsible to you
for my actions."

"Well, I shall learn it, in spite of you, and I know to whom to apply.
Do you think you can play fast and loose with me and my love? No, no! I
used to believe in you; I turned, a deaf ear to your traducers. My mad
passion for you became known; I was the jest and the butt of the town.
But you have opened my eyes, and at last I see clearly on whom my
vengeance ought to fall. He was formerly my friend, and I would believe
nothing against him; although I was often warned, I took no notice. But
now I will seek him out, and say to him, 'You have stolen what was mine;
you are a scoundrel! It must be your life, or mine!' And if, there is
justice in heaven, I shall kill him! Well, madame, you don't ask me the
name of this man! You well know whom I mean!"

This threat brought home to Mademoiselle de Guerchi how imminent was her
danger. At first she had thought the commander's visit might be a snare
laid to test her, but the coarseness of his expressions, the cynicism of
his overtures in the presence of a third person, had convinced her she
was wrong. No man could have imagined that the revolting method of