"
M. Wilkie shook his fist at the baron. "You are a coward
yourself," he retorted. "You had better learn who you are talking
to! You must mend your manners a little, you old----"
The word he uttered was so vile that no man could fail to resent
it, much less the baron, who was already frantic with passion.
His faced turned as purple as if he were stricken with apoplexy,
and such furious rage gleamed in his eyes that Madame d'Argeles
was frightened. She feared she should see her son butchered
before her very eyes, and she extended her arms as if to protect
him. "Jacques," she said beseechingly, "Jacques!"
This was the name which was indelibly impressed upon Wilkie's
memory--the name he had heard when he was but a child. Jacques--
that was the name of the man who had brought him cakes and toys in
the comfortable rooms where he had remained only a few days. He
understood, or at least he thought he understood, everything.
"Ah, ha!" he exclaimed, with a laugh that was at once both
ferocious and idiotic. "This is very fine--monsieur is the lover.
He has the say here--he--"
He did not have time to finish his sentence, for quick as thought
the baron caught him by the collar, lifted him from the ground
with irresistible strength, and flung him on his knees at Madame
d'Argeles's feet, exclaiming: "Ask her pardon, you vile wretch!
Ask her pardon, or----" "Or" meant the baron's clinched fist
descending like a sledge-hammer on M.
Pages:
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167