"Is it possible? Did you meet him?" "No, he came to the house in which I was living, expressly to see me; he had learned my address by chance." "He came to see you--for what purpose?" "Why, for the same purpose that led him to seek me everywhere twenty years ago--to fight me." "To fight you! nonsense! it's impossible!" "Why impossible, I pray to know?" "Because men don't fight after so long a time for things--which have no present existence." "Ah! very prettily put; I am sorry that your husband didn't hear it! But although in fact the motive for fighting is lacking now--the present existence--De Brevanne is still bent upon it--oh! obstinately bent upon it. Probably he has been looking for me constantly, for twenty years; and he had no sooner learned where I was--was perched, than he rushed to the spot, the same as ever, waving his sword, to demand satisfaction. But as I was suffering then from a violent attack of the gout, the sight of my agony convinced him that I was not in condition to stand up to him; so he granted me a respite." "Then it is only postponed; you will end by fighting, I see." "I admire the stoicism of your nature; you say that as if you were talking about your husband and myself going to the Opera ball!" "Mon Dieu! you have become very censorious, very severe! Should I weep when I say it?" "No; indeed that is not your nature; you were never very tearful. To make you shed tears it would be necessary that your hair should be unbecomingly dressed at a large party; and that is an accident to which you were never likely to be exposed." "You are still satirical, caustic, as always, Monsieur de Roncherolle!" "If you find anything about me that has not changed, I am delighted beyond measure." "A truce to jesting, monsieur; when is this duel to take place? I beg you to believe that I am deeply interested." "Don't be alarmed, madame, the duel will not take place. I am as obstinate as De Brevanne. I have sworn not to afford him the chagrin of killing me, and I shall keep my oath." "The chagrin! so you think that the count would regret it if he should kill you?" "I am sure of it; and it would be even worse now than if he had killed me long ago." "You are a surprising creature, on my word! A man who has been seeking you for so many years so persistently! You must see that he is as furious as ever against you; consequently, I fancy that he would not grieve very bitterly over your death!" "You are wrong, madame; the count is no longer furious with me; rage doesn't last twenty years; it dies long before that time. It is nothing but the sentiment of honor that impels your husband now; and that sentiment would not stifle the regret that he would feel if he should kill a man whom he once loved with the most sincere affection." "But whom he now holds in the greatest possible detestation!"