The father lifted his head at these words, as if strength had come to him with which to fight against his grief. "Well, well; I must do my duty now. You have done your part," and he drew Denoisel nearer to him, his tears falling freely at last. XL "Murder is the name for affairs of this kind," M. Barousse was saying to Denoisel as they followed the hearse to the cemetery. "Why didn't you arrange matters between them?" "After that blow?" "After or before," said M. Barousse, peremptorily. "You'd better say that to his father!" "He's a soldier--but you, hang it all--you've never served in the army, and you let him get killed! I consider you killed him." "Look here, I've had enough, M. Barousse." "You see, I reason things out; I've been a magistrate."--Barousse had been a judge on the Board of Trade.--"You have the law courts and you can demand justice. But duels are contrary to all laws, human or divine; remember that. Why, just fancy--a scoundrel comes and gives me a blow in the face; and he must needs kill me as well. Ah, I can promise you one thing: if ever I'm on a jury, and there's a case of a duel--well, I look upon it as murder. Duellists are assassins. In the first place it's a cowardly thing----" "A cowardly thing that every one hasn't the courage to carry through, M. Barousse; it's like suicide." "Ah, if you are going to uphold suicide," said Barousse, and leaving the discussion he continued in a softened tone: "Such a fine fellow too, poor Henri! And then Mauperin, and his wife, and his daughter--the whole family plunged into this grief. No, it makes me wild when I think of it. Why, I had known him all his life." Barousse pulled his watch half out of his waistcoat-pocket as he spoke. "There!" he said, breaking off suddenly; "I know it will be sold; I shall have missed _The Concert_, a superb proof, earlier than the one with the dedication." * * * * * Denoisel returned to Briche with M. Mauperin, who, on arriving, went straight upstairs to his wife. He found her in bed, with the blinds down and the curtains drawn, overwhelmed and crushed by her terrible sorrow. Denoisel opened the drawing-room door and saw Renee, seated on an ottoman, sobbing, with her handkerchief up to her mouth. "Renee," he said, going to her and taking her hands in his, "some one killed him----" Renee looked at him and then lowered her eyes. "That man would never have known; he never read anything and he did not see any one; he lived like a regular wolf; he didn't subscribe to the _Moniteur_, of course. Do you understand?" "No," stammered Renee, trembling all over. "Well, it must have been an enemy who sent the paper to that man. Ah, you can't understand such cowardly things; but that's how it all came about, though. One of his seconds showed me the paper with the paragraph marked----"