He began to understand what difficulties the course to which he was committed must raise up for him.  A fresh obstacle was to be flung across the path which he had just cleared, as he imagined.  Yet his pride and his sense of the justice due to be done admitted of no weakening.

In bitterness he realized now, as he looked from uncle to niece — his glance, usually so direct and bold, now oddly furtive — that though to-morrow he might kill Andre-Louis, yet even by his death Andre-Louis would take vengeance upon him.  He had exaggerated nothing in reaching the conclusion that this Andre-Louis Moreau was the evil genius of his life.  He saw now that do what he would, kill him even though he might, he could never conquer him.  The last word would always be with Andre-Louis Moreau.  In bitterness, in rage, and in humiliation — a thing almost unknown to him — did he realize it, and the realization steeled his purpose for all that he perceived its futility.

Outwardly he showed himself calm and self-contained, properly suggesting a man regretfully accepting the inevitable.  It would have been as impossible to find fault with his bearing as to attempt to turn him from the matter to which he was committed.  And so M. de Kercadiou perceived.

“My God!” was all that he said, scarcely above his breath, yet almost in a groan.

M. de La Tour d’Azyr did, as always, the thing that sensibility demanded of him.  He took his leave.  He understood that to linger where his news had produced such an effect would be impossible, indecent.  So he departed, in a bitterness comparable only with his erstwhile optimism, the sweet fruit of hope turned to a thing of gall even as it touched his lips.  Oh, yes; the last word, indeed, was with Andre-Louis Moreau — always!

Uncle and niece looked at each other as he passed out, and there was horror in the eyes of both.  Aline’s pallor was deathly almost, and standing there now she wrung her hands as if in pain.

“Why did you not ask him — beg him... " She broke off.

“To what end?  He was in the right, and... and there are things one cannot ask; things it would be a useless humiliation to ask.”  He sat down, groaning.  “Oh, the poor boy — the poor, misguided boy.”

In the mind of neither, you see, was there any doubt of what must be the issue.  The calm confidence in which La Tour d’Azyr had spoken compelled itself to be shared.  He was no vainglorious boaster, and they knew of what a force as a swordsman he was generally accounted.

“What does humiliation matter?  A life is at issue — Andre’s life.”

“I know.  My God, don’t I know?  And I would humiliate myself if by humiliating myself I could hope to prevail.  But Azyr is a hard, relentless man, and... "

Abruptly she left him.

She overtook the Marquis as he was in the act of stepping his carriage.  He turned as she called, and bowed.