A fresh obstacle was to be
flung across the path which he had just cleared, as he imagined.
Yet his pride and his sense of the justice due to be done admitted
of no weakening.
In bitterness he realized now, as he looked from uncle to niece
- his glance, usually so direct and bold, now oddly furtive - that
though to-morrow he might kill Andre-Louis, yet even by his death
Andre-Louis would take vengeance upon him. He had exaggerated
nothing in reaching the conclusion that this Andre-Louis Moreau
was the evil genius of his life. He saw now that do what he would,
kill him even though he might, he could never conquer him. The last
word would always be with Andre-Louis Moreau. In bitterness, in
rage, and in humiliation - a thing almost unknown to him - did he
realize it, and the realization steeled his purpose for all that
he perceived its futility.
Outwardly he showed himself calm and self-contained, properly
suggesting a man regretfully accepting the inevitable. It would
have been as impossible to find fault with his bearing as to
attempt to turn him from the matter to which he was committed.
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