Moreover, he was already
twisting and turning the terms of the notice which his seconds
must have inserted in the Figaro, hesitating between two or three
equally startling beginnings: "Another famous duel," or
"Yesterday, after a scandalous scene, an encounter," etc., etc.
Unfortunately, he did not meet either M. Costard or the Viscount
de Serpillon. Strange to say, they were not in any of the cafes,
where the flower of French chivalry usually congregates, in the
company of golden-haired young women, from nine in the evening
until one o'clock in the morning. This disappointment grieved M.
Wilkie sorely, although he derived some benefit from it, for his
disordered attire attracted attention at each place he entered,
and acquaintances eagerly inquired: "Where have you come from, and
what has happened to you?" Whereupon he replied with an air of
profound secrecy: "Pray don't speak of it. A shocking affair! If
it were noised abroad I should be inconsolable."
At last the cafes began to close, and promenaders became rare. M.
Wilkie, much to his regret, was obliged to go home. When he had
locked his door and donned his dressing-gown, he sat down to think
over the events of the day, and collect his scattered wits. What
most troubled and disquieted him was not the condition in which he
had left Madame Lia d'Argeles, his mother, who was, perhaps,
dying, through his fault! It was not the terrible sacrifice that
this poor woman had made for him in a transport of maternal love!
It was not the thought of the source from which the money he had
squandered for so many years had been derived.
Pages:
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341