Gérard writhed and twisted, convulsed with horror. He understood: "Never!" he stuttered. "Never!" "Strike! One blow and it's done! One blow and you will be like that man: no one will recognize you." "Tell me his name. . . ." "Strike first!" "Never! Oh, what torture! . . . I beseech you . . . presently. . . ." "Now. . . . I insist . . . you must . . ." "No . . . no . . . I can't do it. . . ." "Strike, you fool! It means fortune, fame, love. . . ." Gérard raised his fist with a sudden movement. "Love," he said, "yes . . . for that, yes. . . ." "You will love and be loved," said Sernine. "Your betrothed awaits you. I have chosen her myself. She is the purest of the pure, the fairest of the fair. But you must win her. Strike!" The lad's arm stiffened for the fatal blow; but the instinct of self-preservation was too strong for him. His body was wrung with a superhuman effort. He suddenly released himself from Sernine's hold and fled. He rushed like a madman to the other room. A yell of terror escaped him, at the sight of the abominable vision, and he came back and fell on his knees before Sernine, beside the table. "Strike!" said the prince, again spreading out the lad's fingers and fixing the blade of the knife. What followed was done mechanically. With an automatic movement, with haggard eyes and a livid face, the young man raised his fist and struck: "Ah!" he cried, with a moan of pain. A small piece of flesh was separated from the little finger. Blood flowed. For the third time, Gérard fainted. Sernine looked at him for a second or two and said, gently: "Poor little chap! . . . There, I'll reward you for what you've done; and a hundred times over. I always pay generously." He went downstairs and found the doctor waiting below: "It's done. Go upstairs, you, and make a little cut in his right cheek, similar to Pierre Leduc's. The two scars must be exactly alike. I shall come back for you in an hour." "Where are you going?" "To take the air. My heart feels anyhow." Outside he drew a long breath and lit another cigarette: "A good day's work," he muttered. "A little over-crowded, a little tiring, but fruitful, really fruitful. I am Dolores Kesselbach's friend. I am Geneviève's friend. I have manufactured a new Pierre Leduc, a very presentable one and entirely at my disposal. Lastly, I have found Geneviève a husband of the sort that you don't find by the dozen. Now my task is done. I have only to gather the fruit of my efforts. It's your turn to work, M. Lenormand. I, for my part, am ready." And he added, thinking of the poor mutilated lad whom he had dazzled with his promises, "Only--for there is an 'only'--I have not the slightest notion who this Pierre Leduc was, whose place I have magnanimously awarded to that good young man. And that's very annoying. . . . For when all is said, there's nothing to prove to me that Pierre Leduc was not the son of a pork-butcher! . . ." CHAPTER V M. LENORMAND AT WORK