despise the other, whether from a knowledge of some private and latent
fact which degrades him, or of a secret condition, or even of a coming
revenge, those two men divine each other's souls, and are able to
measure the gulf which separates or ought to separate them. They
observe each other unconsciously; their minds are preoccupied by
themselves; through their looks, their gestures, an indefinable
emanation of their thought transpires; there's a magnet between them.
I don't know which has the strongest power of attraction, vengeance or
crime, hatred or insult. Like a priest who cannot consecrate the host
in presence of an evil spirit, each is ill at ease and distrustful;
one is polite, the other surly, but I know not which; one colors or
turns pale, the other trembles. Often the avenger is as cowardly as
the victim. Few men have the courage to invoke an evil, even when just
or necessary, and men are silent or forgive a wrong from hatred of
uproar or fear of some tragic ending.

This introsusception of our souls and our sentiments created a
mysterious struggle between Taillefer and myself. Since the first
inquiry I had put to him during Monsieur Hermann's narrative, he had
steadily avoided my eye. Possibly he avoided those of all the other
guests. He talked with the youthful, inexperienced daughter of the
banker, feeling, no doubt, like many other criminals, a need of
drawing near to innocence, hoping to find rest there. But, though I
was a long distance from him, I heard him, and my piercing eye
fascinated his. When he thought he could watch me unobserved our eyes
met, and his eyelids dropped immediately.

Weary of this torture, Taillefer seemed determined to put an end to it
by sitting down at a card-table. I at once went to bet on his
adversary; hoping to lose my money. The wish was granted; the player