“And I, monsieur, have never fought, for I have never had occasion, and I did not seek it now.  I wait your pleasure, monsieur.”

“Oh!” said St. Maline, “we are compatriots, and we are both in the king’s service; do not let us quarrel.  You are a brave man, and I would give you my hand if I could.  What would you have?  I am envious—­it is my nature.  M. de Chalabre, or M. de Montcrabeau, would not have made me angry; it was your superior merit.  Console yourself, therefore, for I can do nothing against you, and unluckily your merit remains.  I should not like any one to know the cause of our quarrel.”

“No one will know it, monsieur.”

“No one?”

“No; for if we fight I should kill you, or you would kill me.  I do not despise life; on the contrary, I cling to it, for I am only twenty-three years of age, have a good name and am not poor, and I shall defend myself like a lion.”

“Well, I, on the contrary, am thirty, and am disgusted with life; but still I would rather not fight with you.”

“Then you will apologize?”

“No, I have said enough.  If you are not content, so much the better, for you are not superior to me.”

“But, monsieur, one cannot end a quarrel thus, without the risk of being laughed at.”—­“I know it.”

“Then you refuse to fight?”

“With you.”

“After having provoked me?”

“I confess it.”

“But if my patience fail, and I attack you?”

“I will throw my sword away; but I shall then have reason to hate you, and the first time I find you in the wrong, I will kill you.”

Ernanton sheathed his sword.  “You are a strange man,” said he, “and I pity you.”

“You pity me!”

“Yes, for you must suffer.”

“Horribly.”

“Do you never love?”

“Never.”

“Have you no passions?”

“One alone, jealousy; but that includes all others to a frightful degree.  I adore a woman, as soon as she loves another; I love gold, when another possesses it;—­yes, you are right, I am unhappy.”

“Have you never tried to become good?”

“Yes, and failed.  What does the venomous plant?  What do the bear and bird of prey?  They destroy, but certain people use them for the chase.  So shall I be in the hands of mm. d’Epernon and Loignac, till the day when they shall say, ’This plant is hurtful, let us tear it up; this beast is furious, let us kill him.’”

Ernanton was calmed; St. Maline was no longer an object of anger but of pity.

“Good fortune should cure you,” said he; “when you succeed, you should hate less.”

“However high I should rise, others would be higher.”

They rode on silently for some time.  At last Ernanton held out his hand to St. Maline, and said, “Shall I try to cure you?”

“No, do not try that; you would fail.  Hate me, on the contrary, and I shall admire you.”