“I want you and Mademoiselle Mirouët to forgive me.”
“She will forgive you, but I, never!”
“Well then, you will forget?”
What awful power reasoning possesses when backed by interest! Two men, one longing to rend the other, were there, in a small courtyard, a finger’s breadth from each other, forced into conversation, united by the selfsame feeling.
“I might forgive you, but I should not forget.”
“That won’t do,” said Goupil, coldly.
Savinien lost patience. He gave his face a slap which re-echoed in the courtyard, nearly upset Goupil, and made him stagger himself.
“I only get what I deserve,” said Goupil, “I committed a piece of folly. I believed you to be nobler than you are. You have abused an advantage I gave you—you are now in my power!” he said, darting a spiteful look at Savinien.
“You are a murderer!” said the nobleman.
“Not more than the knife is the murderer!” replied Goupil.
“I ask your pardon,” said Savinien.
“Have you had enough revenge?” said Goupil, with fierce irony, “will you go no further?”
“Forgive and forget on both sides,” said Savinien.
“Your hand?” said the clerk, holding out his own to the nobleman.
“Here it is,” replied Savinien, swallowing this shame for love of Ursule. “But speak; who urged you on?”
