"It is true," simply.
"True or false, you have published it without cause or reason. Good
God! and they will laugh at you; and I will kill all who laugh in my
presence. What madness!" Victor flung his hat on the table, strode
the length of the room, beating his hands and rumpling his hair.
"How you go on, Victor!" said the Chevalier with half a smile. "And
you love me still?"
"And will, to the latest breath in my body. I know of no other man I
love so wholly as I love you."
"I would lose two marquisates rather than be without this knowledge."
"But oh! what have you done? To-morrow . . . What will you do
to-morrow?"
"To-morrow? A bottle of wine, lad; and wherefore to-morrow?
To-morrow? There will always be a tomorrow. The world began on one
and will end on one. So give me wine, bubbling with lies, false
promises, phantom happiness, mockery and despair. Each bottle is but
lies; and yet how well each bottle tells them! Wine, Victor; do you
hear me? I must never come sober again; in drunkenness, there lies
oblivion. What! shall I come sober . . . to feel, to care? . . . to
hear them laugh? No, no! See!" brushing his forehead, beaded with
moisture; "I am sweating gall, lad. God!" striking the table with his
fist; "could you but look within and see the lust to kill, the
damnation and despair! Woe to him whom I hear laugh! And yet . . . he
will be within his rights. Whenever men tire of torturing animals,
nature gives them a cripple or a bastard to play with. And look! I am
calm, my hand no longer shakes."
Victor leaned against the chimney, haggard of face, silent of tongue.
The Chevalier took out a letter and held it close to the candle-light.
He sighed. Victor saw that he was not looking at the letter, but
through it and beyond. Some time passed.
"And, Victor, I was going back to Paris to-morrow, to life and to love.
Within this scented envelope a woman has written the equivalent of 'I
love you!' as only a loving woman can write it. How quickly the candle
would eat it! But shall I destroy it? No. Rather let me keep it to
remind myself what was and what might have been. Far away from here I
shall read it again and again, till it crumbles in my hand and scatters
into dust." He hid the letter in his doublet and drew forth a
miniature. Like a ruddy ember it lay in his hand. "Paris! O prince
of cities, there lies upon your stones the broken cup which held my
youth!" The yellow of the candle and the red of the fire gave a
singularly rich tone to his face, from which the dullness of
intoxication was suddenly gone.