For there are some who want, it seems, not laws, but
blood; I solemnly warn them that this blood will end by choking
them, if they do not learn in time to discard force and allow reason
to prevail."
Again in that phrase there was something that stirred a memory in
La Tour d'Azyr. He turned in the fresh uproar to speak to his
cousin Chabrillane who sat beside him.
"A daring rogue, this bastard of Gavrillac's," said he.
Chabrillane looked at him with gleaming eyes, his face white with
anger.
"Let him talk himself out. I don't think he will be heard again
after to-day. Leave this to me."
Hardly could La Tour have told you why, but he sank back in his seat
with a sense of relief. He had been telling himself that here was
matter demanding action, a challenge that he must take up. But
despite his rage he felt a singular unwillingness. This fellow had
a trick of reminding him, he supposed, too unpleasantly of that
young abbe done to death in the garden behind the Breton arme at
Gavrillac. Not that the death of Philippe de Vilmorin lay heavily
upon M.
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