"Listen to me, Monsieur," continued Gerfaut, with great emotion; "when I
said to you, 'She is not guilty,' you did not believe me, and I despair
of ever persuading you, for I know well what your suspicions must be.
However, these are the last words addressed to you that will leave my
mouth, and you know that one has to believe a dying man's statement. If
tomorrow you avenge yourself, I earnestly beg of you, let this reparation
suffice. All my pride is gone, you see, since I beg this of you upon my
bended knees. Be humane toward her; spare her, Monsieur. It is not
pardon which I ask you to grant her--it is pity for her unsullied
innocence. Treat her kindly--honorably. Do not make her too wretched."

He stopped, for his voice failed him, and his eyes filled with tears.

"I know what I ought to do," replied the Baron, in as harsh a tone as
Gerfaut's had been tender; "I am her husband, and I do not recognize
anybody's right, yours least of all, to interpose between us."

"I can foresee the fate which you have in reserve for her," replied the
lover, indignantly; "you will not murder her, for that would be too
imprudent; what would become of your vaunted honor then? But you will
slowly kill her; you will make her die a new death every day, in order to
satisfy a blind vengeance. You are a man to meditate over each new
torture as calmly as you have regulated every detail of our duel."

Bergenheim, instead of replying, lighted a candle as if to put an end to
this discussion.

"Until to-morrow, Monsieur," said he, with a cold air.