"Wednesday, I tell you," repeated Pierre, now lifting bloodshot eyes. "Next Wednesday! Five days! This is Friday, is it not? Yes." He stopped now to count the days on shaking fingers. "Five more days and she will be his wife. That woman I love,--that pure flower to whom even my honorable devotion seemed desecration! She will lie in that old man's arms,--she will be his wife! God! _God!_ Man!" he screamed, striking the table with one frantic fist, and then rising to hurl himself in torment about the room, "don't stand there screwing into my brain with your fishy eyes! Have you ever known love--do you understand jealousy--have you heard of--hell?" "At your age I knew all three," said Ronsard, calmly. "I went through all, and I live, I eat, I intrigue, I am happy. So shall it be with you, madman!" Pierre threw back his head in a rude clamor, meant for laughter. He was passing near Ronsard at the instant. The elder man reached out and caught his wrist. "Now, Pierre Le Beau, stand still and hear what I have to say!" At the tone of command, rather than the physical detention, Pierre stood still, wondering. "This is the best thing that could possibly happen to you. Yes, be quiet. You shall listen. I've endured sufficient childish railing for one day! It is infinitely the best thing for you--for your mother--for me--for France! I have a diplomatic secret to whisper. That old man Hagané--for once in his life a fool--may be sent at any moment to review the campaign in Manchuria. He and his generals may be great, but Kuropatkin is greater. Do you know what that may mean to you? Ah, I thought so; at the hope of some personal reward you flicker back to sanity. What are the honor and glory of France to such effete sensualists as you? Bah,--it sickens me! And yet, since some day you may become men, you must be dealt with. Hagané, in his supreme self-confidence, urged on, doubtless, by Onda, dares marry this young girl, though he knows her to be in love with you! Will you destroy her love, fool, by smothering it in her contempt? Hagané goes to Manchuria. His young wife mourns,--hélas! I see her weeping in his absence. There are secrets spoken in the nuptial chamber,--documents left in charge of the pretty chatelaine. Pierre, Pierre, celestial revenge hangs like ripe fruit to your hand, let her marry Hagané,--let her love you! Do not revile or scorn her. Wait--wait!" His eyes, twinkling like those of a snake, crawled up Pierre's face to his shrinking gaze. His fat hand still clutched with a grasp that burned. Pierre tried to draw away. Again the repulsion, the fascination in this man battled for his reason. "Wait!" whispered Ronsard once again, and turned.