But that ill-timed riot had robbed
him at once of both. Faithful to his word to Sautron he had
definitely broken with La Binet, only to find that Aline had
definitely broken with him. And by the time that he had
sufficiently recovered from his grief to think again of La Binet,
the comedienne had vanished beyond discovery.
For all this he blamed, and most bitterly blamed, Andre-Louis.
That low-born provincial lout pursued him like a Nemesis, was
become indeed the evil genius of his life. That was it - the evil
genius of his life! And it was odds that on Monday... He did not
like to think of Monday. He was not particularly afraid of death.
He was as brave as his kind in that respect, too brave in the
ordinary way, and too confident of his skill, to have considered
even remotely such a possibility as that of dying in a duel. It
was only that it would seem like a proper consummation of all the
evil that he had suffered directly or indirectly through this
Andre-Louis Moreau that he should perish ignobly by his hand.
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