But his glance
did not waver; not a muscle of his face moved; his countenance
retained its usually cold and disdainful expression. Evidently he
had not the slightest suspicion that the man he had tried to ruin--
his mortal enemy--was standing there before him.
"M. Maumejan," said he, "Baron Trigault's agent?"
"Yes, monsieur----"
"Pray be seated. I am just finishing here; I shall be at leisure
in a moment."
Pascal took a chair. He had feared that he might not be able to
retain his self-control when he found himself in the presence of
the scoundrel who, after destroying his happiness, ruining his
future, and depriving him of his honor--dearer than life itself--
was at that moment endeavoring, by the most infamous manoeuvres,
to rob him of the woman he loved. "If my blood mounted to my
brain," he had thought, "I should spring upon him and strangle
him!" But no. His arteries did not throb more quickly; it was
with perfect calmness--the calmness of a strong nature--that he
stealthily watched M. de Valorsay. If he had seen him a week
before he would have been startled by the change which the past
few days had wrought in this brilliant nobleman's appearance. He
was little more than a shadow of his former self. And seen at
this hour, before placing himself in his valet's hands, before his
premature decrepitude had been concealed by the artifices of the
toilet, he was really frightful.
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