trified, and then suddenly
exclaimed: "What! You have done that--you--a gentleman?"

M. de Valorsay paced the floor in a state of intense agitation. Had he
caught a glimpse of his own face in the looking-glass, it would have
frightened him. "A gentleman!" he repeated, in a tone of suppressed
rage; "a gentleman! That word is in everybody's mouth, nowadays. Pray,
what do you understand by a gentleman, Mons. Fortunat? No doubt, you
mean a heroic idiot who passed through life with a lofty mien, clad in
all the virtues, as stoical as Job, and as resigned as a martyr--a sort
of moral Don Quixote, preaching the austerest virtue, and practising
it? But, unfortunately, nobility of soul and of purpose are expensive
luxuries, and I am a ruined man. I am no saint! I love life and all that
makes life beautiful and desirable--and to procure its pleasures I must
fight with the weapons of the age. No doubt, it is grand to be honest;
but in my case it is so impossible, that I prefer to be dishonest--to
commit an act of shameful infamy which will yield a hundred thousand
francs a year. This man is in my way--I suppress him--so much the worse
for him--he has no business to be in my way. If I could have met him
openly, I would have dispatched him according to the accepted code of
honor; but, then, I should have had to renounce all idea of marrying
Mademoiselle Marguerite, so I was obliged to find some other way. I
could not choose my means. The drowning man does not reject the plank,
which is his only chance of salvation, because it chances to be dirty."

His gestures were even more forcible than his words; and when he
concluded, he threw himself on to the sofa, holding his head tightly
between his hands, as if he felt that it was bursting. Anger choked
his utterance--not anger so much as something he would not confess,
the quickening of his own conscience and the revolt of every honorable
instinct; for, in spite of his sins of omission, and of commission,
never, until this day, had he actually violated any clause of the code
acknowledged by men of honor.

"You have been guilty of a most infamous act, Monsieur le Marquis," said
M. Fortunat, coldly.

"Oh! no moralizing, if you please."

"Only evil will come of it."

The marquis shrugged his shoulders, and in a tone of bitter scorn,
retorted: "Come, Mons. Fortunat, if you wish to lose the forty thousand
francs you advanced to me, it's easy enough to do so. Run to Madame
d'Argeles's ho