"On his behalf," she went on, "I apologise to M. Patrick Mahon; and I am commissioned by him, M. de Coigny, in return for all the lies and evil words you have spoken about M. Mahon, to give you this." And she struck De Coigny on the face lightly with her gloved hand. Then I woke up, and I felt the blood surge to my face as I stepped forward. She turned to me, with her lips half parted in a glad smile; our eyes met. God! in that moment how my whole being leapt alive! Bursting and rending its husk, my imprisoned spirit broke free, as a dragon-fly breaks free touched by the sun's magic wand. I heard myself speak; I was speaking coldly and distinctly, addressing De Coigny, and yet all my soul was addressing her in delirious unspoken words. "M. de Coigny," said the voice which came from my lips, "we are, I believe, old enemies. I have forgotten all that, but the Baron Carl von Lichtenberg's quarrels are now mine; and if your craven heart will allow you to hold a sword, I beg to take his place." What then followed is like a dream in my mind. I heard the seconds consulting. I heard Dr. Pons' voice speaking in a tone of relief: "So then we are to have some music after all!" I held two warm hands in mine, and I heard myself saying: "Yes, yes, you will stay here. I shall not be long. Oh, no; I shall not be killed! I will return. To be killed would be too absurd _now_. Wait for me." Then, leaning on De Brissac's arm, I was walking down the Avenue des Minimes, and now, sword in hand, I was fronting De Coigny. * * * * * He was backgrounded by the willows, all silvering to the breeze, and his hateful face filled me with a fury that rose in my throat and which I had to gulp down. He was the only thing that stood between me and the heaven that had just been revealed to me; he was there with a sword in his hand, as if to bar me out and cut me off for ever from it. He was everything I hated, and the power of hate had suddenly risen gigantic in my breast, shouting for his blood. Then we fought, and I found myself commanding myself, just as a drunken man commands himself to stand straight and be cool. Sometimes I saw his face, and sometimes I saw it not, yet ever I knew that I held him with my eye as a fowler holds a bird in his hand. Had anyone been wandering by the pool of the Minimes, he might have fancied that he heard the cry of a seagull--a single, melancholy cry; for it is crying thus that a man's soul escapes when he is stricken through the heart. CHAPTER XXXVII MARGARET "He is dead," said Dr. Pons. I looked at the rapier in my hand. There were a few contracting spots on it. Then De Brissac held my coat for me. "His foot slipped, or you would not have got him like that," I heard him say. "Oh, it is unpleasant enough, but the thing is perfectly in order. You need have no fear. Yes, yes; I will lead you to her. You will be at the Place Vendôme, I suppose? There will be an inquiry, and all that."