uick as were his movements, reflection, fear, and
vital instinct were still more rapid,--the murderer lacked courage,--his
arm fell on his knees. Tortillard had watched all his actions with an
attentive eye, and, when he saw the finale of this pseudo-tragedy, he
continued, mockingly,--

"How, boys, a duel? Ah, pluck the chickens!"

The Schoolmaster, fearing that he should lose his senses if he gave way
to an ineffectual burst of fury, turned a deaf ear to this fresh insult
of Tortillard, who so impertinently commented on the cowardice of an
assassin who recoiled from suicide. Despairing of escape from what he
termed, by a sort of avenging fatality, the cruelty of his cursed child,
the ruffian sought to try what could be done by assailing the avarice of
the son of Bras Rouge.

"Ah," said he to him, in a tone almost supplicatory, "lead me to the
door of my wife's room, and take anything you like that's in her room
and run away with it! leave me to myself. You may cry out 'murder' if
you like; they will apprehend me--kill me on the spot--I care not, I
shall die avenged, if I have not the courage to end my existence myself.
Oh, lead me there--lead me there; depend on it she has gold, jewels,
anything, and you may take all, all for yourself, for your own, do you
mind?--your own; only lead me to the door where she is."

"Yes, I mind well enough; you want me to lead you to her door, then to
her bed, and then to tell you when to strike, then to guide your
hand--eh! that's it, ain't it? You want to make me a handle to your
knife, old monster!" replied Tortillard, with an expression of contempt,
anger, and horror, which, for the first time in his life gave an
appearance of seriousness to his weasel face, usually all impertinence
and insolence; "I'll be killed first, I tell you, sooner than I'll lead
you to where your wife is!"

"You refuse?"

The son of Bras Rouge made no reply. He approached with bare feet and
without being heard by the Schoolmaster, who, seated on the bed, still
held his large knife in his hand, and then, in a moment, with marvellous
quickness and dexterity, Tortillard snatched from him his weapon, and
with one jump skipped to the further end of the chamber.

"My knife! my knife!" cried the brigand, extending his arms.

"No; for then you might to-morrow morning ask to speak with your wife
and try to kill her, since, as you say, you have had enough of life, and
are such a coward that you don't dare kill