But, before he took himself off, he was anxious to put all these thoughts into words, to reproach her with her want of candour towards him, with having caused him to appear in a perfectly ridiculous light, with having forgotten all the claims of friendship, with having treated him as an ordinary acquaintance, or a too persistent companion, with having sacrificed him entirely to the man who had won her love, and all this without one kind word, without a single expression of regret. The reproaches he would utter, the withering words he would hurl at her, straight to her face! And not to her alone would he speak! She was not the only one to blame, she was not the only false friend, Périères, too, had deceived and betrayed him! He did not reproach him for being beloved. But why had he not come forward openly and said—"I have succeeded more quickly than I anticipated. You are no longer in the betting. Banish all hope from your heart. Drive away this love, against which you struggle now; later on it would have killed you." But, no; like Madame de Guéran, M. Périères preferred to keep by his side his companion, the friend ready to do any deed of devotion. It was shameful to act thus in the exceptional circumstances in which they were placed! If such want of confidence, such caution, such hypocrisy, and such cowardice pass muster in the world, in the drawing-rooms and boudoirs of Parisian society, they ought not to exist between friends who have together braved death and are ready to brave it again, between wanderers on a savage Continent, in a deadly climate! He went in search of his rival, so that he might cast on him all this reproach and abase, and he was inclined to be the more violent, because at the bottom of his heart he was conscious of a feeling that he was both unjust and absurd. For was not M. Périères perfectly right to be reticent about his success, out of respect to Madame de Guéran? But what did M. de Morin care about respect, or truth, or propriety? He was jealous, his mental vision was obscured, he had lost his head. Just as he was leaving the house he saw the interpreter Ali getting off his horse, and he asked him if he knew whether M. Périères had gone out since sunset, and, if so, in what direction. "I have just met him on the quay," replied the interpreter. "He was going along the road leading to Madame de Guéran's house." "I might have known as much," said M. de Morin to himself. "I was a fool to ask the question." And, trembling with rage, he asked— "How long ago is it since you saw him?" "About ten minutes." "On horseback?" "No, he was on foot." "I must speak with him. Lend me your horse, and I will try to overtake him." The interpreter obeyed, and M. de Morin set off at a hand-gallop in the direction of the Blue River.