"Oh! Ingratitude!" and Pradès, with his Argentine accent, spoke his sister's name. "My father died and Carlotta herself entrusted me to your care, my dear brother-in-law!" It seemed to the sick man, irritated as he was, that this name--which he had buried deep in his heart with chaste tenderness--was a supreme insult. "I forbid you to evoke that memory! You do not see, then, that the memory of that dear and saintly creature is one of the griefs of my life!" "And it is one of my heritages! Brother-in-law of a consul, _Senor mia_, but it is a title, and I hold it!" Rovère experienced a strong desire to call, to ring, to give an order to have this troublesome visitor put out. But energetic and fearless as he had been but a short time before, now weakened by illness, he trembled before a possible scandal. Then he, unaided, attempted to push the young man out of the salon. Pradès resisted, and, at the first touch, gave a bound, and all that was evil in him suddenly awoke. A struggle ensued, without a word being pronounced by either; a quick, brutal struggle. Rovère counted on his past strength, taking by the collar this Pradès who threatened him, and Pradès, while clutching the ex-Consul with his left hand, searched in his pocket for a weapon--the one which Bernardet had taken from him. This was a sinister moment! Pradès pushed Rovère back; he staggered and fell against a piece of furniture, while the young man disengaging himself, stepped back, quickly opened his Spanish knife, then, with a bound, caught Rovère, shook him, and holding the knife uplifted, said: "Thou hast willed it!" It was at this instant that Rovère, whose hands were contracted, dug his nails into the assassin's neck--the nails which the Commissary Desbrière and M. Jacquelin Audrays had found still red with blood. Pradès, who had come there either to supplicate or threaten, now had only one thought, hideous and ferocious--to kill! He did not reason. It was no more than an unchained instinct. The noise of the organs upon the Boulevard, which accompanied with their musical, dragging notes this savage scene, like a tremulo undertone to a melodrama at the theatre, he did not hear. The whole intensity of his life seemed to be concentrated in his fury, in his hand armed with the knife. He threw himself on Rovère; he struck the flesh, opening the throat, as across the water among the Gauchos he had been accustomed to kill sheep or cut the throat of an ox. Rovère staggered, wavered, freed from the hand which held him, and Pradès stepping back, looked at him. Livid, the dying man seemed to live only in his eyes. He had cast upon the murderer a last meaning look--now, in a sort of supreme agony, he looked around, his eyes searched for a support, for aid, yes, they called, while from that throat horrible sounds issued.