He spoke with an agitation which was not assumed, so much was he troubled by the evidence of danger which Gorka’s obstinacy presented.  The latter, who had begun to collect himself, had a strange light in his eyes.  Without doubt his companion’s nervousness marked the moment he was awaiting to strike a decisive blow.  He rose with so sudden a start that Dorsenne drew back.  He seized both of his hands, but with such force that not a quiver of the muscles escaped him: 

“Yes, Julien, you have the means of consoling me, you have it,” said he in a voice again hoarse with emotion.

“What is it?” asked the novelist.

“What is it?  You are an honest man, Dorsenne; you are a great artist; you are my friend, and a friend allied to me by a sacred bond, almost a brother-in-arms; you, the grandnephew of a hero who shed his blood by the side of my grandfather at Somo-Sierra.  Give me your word of honor that you are absolutely certain Madame Steno is not Maitland’s mistress, that you never thought it, have never heard it said, and I will believe you, I will obey you!  Come,” continued he, pressing the writer’s hand with more fervor, “I see you hesitate!”

“No,” said Julien, disengaging himself from the wild grasp, “I do not hesitate.  I am sorry for you.  Were I to give you that word, would it have any weight with you for five minutes?  Would you not be persuaded immediately that I was perjuring myself to avoid a misfortune?”

“You hesitate,” interrupted Boleslas.  Then, with a burst of wild laughter, he said, “It is then true!  I like that better!  It is frightful to know it, but one suffers less—­To know it’ As if I did not know she had lovers before me, as if it were not written on Alba’s every feature that she is Werekiew’s child, as if I had not heard it said seventy times before knowing her that she had loved Branciforte, San Giobbe, Strabane, ten others.  Before, during, or after, what difference does it make?  Ah, I was sure on knocking at your door—­at this door of honor—­I should hear the truth, that I would touch it as I touch this object,” and he laid his hand upon a marble bust on the table.

“You see I hear it like a man.  You can speak to me now.  Who knows?  Disgust is a great cure for passion.  I will listen to you.  Do not spare me!”

“You are mistaken, Gorka,” replied Dorsenne.  “What I have to say to you, I can say very simply.  I was, and I am, convinced that in a quarter of an hour, in an hour, tomorrow, the day after, you will consider me a liar or an imbecile.  But, since you misinterpreted my silence, it is my duty to speak, and I do so.  I give you my word of honor I have never had the least suspicion of a connection between Madame Steno and Maitland, nor have their relations seemed changed to me for a second since your absence.  I give you my word of honor that no one, do you hear, no one has spoken of it to me.  And, now, act as you please, think as you please.  I have said all I can say.”