the end of Carmen Barbille; and it was your fault."

"You would do me harm and not hurt her! Look how she treated you--and
others."

Jean Jacques half rose from his seat in sudden rage, but he restrained
himself, and sat down again. "She had one husband--only one. It was
Jean Jacques Barbille. She could only treat one as she treated me--me,
her husband. But you, what had you to do with that! You used her--so!"
He made a motion as though to stamp out an insect with his foot.
"Beautiful, a genius, sick and alone--no husband, no child, and you used
her so! That is why I shall kill you to-night. We will fight for it."

Yes, but surely the man was mad, and the thing to do was to humour him,
to gain time. To humour a madman--that is what one always advised,
therefore Stolphe would make the pourparler, as the French say.

"Well, that's all right," he rejoined, "but how is it going to be done?
Have you got a pistol?" He thought he was very clever, and that he would
now see whether Jean Jacques Barbille was armed. If he was not armed,
well, then, there would be the chances in his favour; it wasn't easy to
kill with hands alone.

Jean Jacques ignored the question, however. He waved a hand impatiently,
as though to dismiss it. "She was beautiful and splendid; she had been a
queen down there in Quebec. You lied to her, and she was blind at first
--I can see it all. She believed so easily--but yes, always! There
she was what she was, and you were what you are, not a Frenchman, not
Catholic, and an American--no, not an American--a South American. But
no, not quite a South American, for there was the Portuguese nigger in