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After what was revealed this morning, Monsieur Noirtier de Villefort cannot imagine any alliance to be possible between his family and that of Monsieur Franz d'Epinay. Monsieur Franz d'Epinay is appalled when he considers that Monsieur Villefort, who appeared to know about the events that were described this morning, did not anticipate his reaction.

Anyone who could have seen the magistrate at that moment, stricken as he was, would not have believed that he had foreseen it. Indeed, he would never have thought that his father would be so frank -- or so brutal -- as to recount such a story. True, M. Noirtier, contemptuous of his son's opinion, had never taken the trouble to elucidate the matter for Villefort and the latter had always assumed that General Quesnel -- or Baron d'Epinay, according to whether one prefers to call him by the name he made for himself or the one that was made for him -- had been assassinated, rather than honourably killed in a duel.

Franz had staggered out of Noirtier's room in such a confused state that even Valentine felt sorry for him. Villefort merely muttered some incoherent phrases and fled to his study where, two hours later, he received the following letter:

This harsh letter, from a young man who until then had been so respectful, was devastating to the pride of someone like Villefort. Hardly had he entered his study than his wife followed. Franz's disappearance, at M. Noirtier's summons, had so astonished everyone that the position of Mme de Villefort, who had remained alone with the notary and the witnesses, had become more and more embarrassing. Eventually she made up her mind and left, announcing that she was going to find out what had happened.

Villefort told her only that, after a dispute between himself, M. Noirtier and M. d'Epinay, Franz's engagement to Valentine had been broken off. This was not easy to relay to the people who were still waiting, so Mme de Villefort went back and said simply that M. Noirtier had suffered some kind of apoplectic seizure at the start of the meeting, so the signature of the contract had naturally been postponed for a few days. This news, false though it was, made such a singular impression, coming after two other misfortunes of the same kind, that all of them looked at one another in astonishment, then left without a word.

Meanwhile Valentine, at once happy and appalled, after embracing and thanking the weak old man who had with just a single blow shattered a bond that she had already come to consider indissoluble, asked if she could retire so that she could recover, and Noirtier, with a look, gave her permission to do so. However, instead of going up to her room, Valentine went out and down the corridor, then, leaving by the little door, ran into the garden. In the midst of all the events that had taken place, one after the other, her mind had been constantly tormented by a vague apprehension: from one moment to the next, she expected to see Morrel burst in, pale and threatening like the Laird of Ravenswood at the betrothal of Lucy of Lammermoor.

As it happened, she reached the gate just in time. Maximilien, guessing what was about to take place when he saw Franz leave the cemetery with M. de Villefort, had followed him. Then, after seeing him enter, he saw him come out again, then return with Château-Renaud. He could no longer have any doubt. He hurried to his field, ready for anything, sure that Valentine would come there to him as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

He had been right. His eye pressed to the fence, he saw the young woman run towards the gate, without taking any of her usual precautions. At first glance, Maximilien was reassured, and at her first word he leapt with joy.

"Saved!" Morrel repeated, unable to believe such good fortune. "By whom are we saved?"

Morrel swore to love the old man with all his soul; and the oath cost him nothing, for at that moment he did not merely love him like a friend or a father: he adored him as a god.

"Saved!" Valentine said.

"By my grandfather. Oh, Morrel! Love him dearly!"

"But how did it happen?" Morrel asked. "What strange means did he employ?"

This put the conversation on a plane which made it easy for Morrel to understand anything; so he understood that he must be content with what he knew and that this was enough for one day. However, he agreed to leave only on the promise that he would see Valentine the following evening. She gave him her promise. Everything had changed in her eyes and it was certainly easier for her now to believe that she would marry Morrel than it had been an hour earlier to believe that she would not marry Franz.

"When?"

Valentine opened her mouth to tell him everything, but then considered that there was a dreadful secret behind all this that did not belong only to her grandfather. "Later," she said. "I shall tell you everything later."

"When I am your wife."

Noirtier gave no sign of emotion.

While this was going on, Mme de Villefort had gone up to see Noirtier. The old man looked at her with the stern, dark eye that he usually turned on her.

"Monsieur," she said, "I do not need to tell you that Valentine's engagement has been broken off, because this is where the breach occurred."

"But," Mme de Villefort went on, "what you do not know, Monsieur, is that I was always opposed to the match, which was to take place in spite of my objections."

Noirtier looked enquiringly at his daughter-in-law.

Noirtier's eyes asked what this could be.

"Well, now that the engagement is broken off -- and I was always aware of your distaste for it -- I have come with a request that neither Monsieur de Villefort nor Valentine could make."

"I have come, Monsieur," Mme de Villefort went on, "as the only person who has a right to do so, being the only one who has nothing to gain from it, to beg you to restore to your granddaughter, not your goodwill, since she has always had that, but your fortune."

Noirtier's eyes remained unsure for an instant, clearly seeking the motives behind this demand and unable to find them.

"Am I right to hope, Monsieur," Mme de Villefort said, "that your intentions were in harmony with the request I have just made?"

While the engagement was being broken off at the Villeforts', the Comte de Morcerf received a visit from Monte Cristo and, to show Danglars how eager he was, he put on his lieutenant-general's dress uniform -- the one he had had decked out with all his decorations -- and called for his best horses. In this finery, he trotted round to the Rue de la Chaussée-d'Antin and had himself announced to Danglars, who was going over his end-of-the-month accounts. In recent weeks this had not been the best time to meet the banker if one wanted to find him in a good mood. So, at the sight of his old friend, Danglars put on his most majestic air and drew himself up in his chair.

"In that case, Monsieur," she concluded, "I shall leave you with both gratitude and contentment." And, bowing to him, she went out of the room.

The following day, Noirtier duly called for the notary. The first will was torn up and a new one made under which he left his entire fortune to Valentine, on condition that she was not separated from him. Some people in society therefore calculated that Mlle de Villefort, heiress to the Marquis and Marquise de Saint-Méran and now restored to her grandfather's favour, would one day have an income of nearly 300,000 livres.

"Yes," said Noirtier.

Morcerf, contrary to his usual strait-laced manner, was wearing a jolly, affable smile. Since he was more or less certain that his suit would be received favourably, he did not bother with diplomatic niceties, but came straight to the point: "Here I am, Baron," he said. "For a long time we have been beating about the bush over what we said…"

As he began speaking, Morcerf expected the banker's face to relax, attributing its lowering expression to his silence; but, on the contrary, the face became still more cold and impassive (though one would hardly have deemed this possible). This was why Morcerf had stopped in the middle of his sentence.

"What did we say, Monsieur le Comte?" the banker asked, as if searching his memory for an explanation of the general's meaning.

"Ah, I see!" the count said. "You are going to respect the formalities, my dear sir, and want to remind me that protocol requires us to follow the proper procedure. Very well, so be it! You must forgive me: I only have one son and this is the first time I have considered marrying him, so I am still a novice in these matters. Right, I'll do as you wish." And, with a forced smile, he got up, made a deep bow to Danglars and said: "Baron, I have the honour to ask for the hand of Mademoiselle Eugénie Danglars, your daughter, for my son, Viscount Albert de Morcerf."

"What do you mean?" Morcerf asked. "I don't follow you, Baron."

"Yes, let's put our cards on the table."

"I mean, Monsieur, that in the past fortnight certain new circumstances…"

"What game?"

"Well, last time you saw him, you told him that I seemed vague and uncertain where this match is concerned."

"One moment, I beg you," said Morcerf. "Are you serious, or is this some game we are playing?"

"That's all I ask."

"Consider!" Morcerf exclaimed with mounting astonishment. "Haven't you had time to consider in the eight years since we first mentioned this match?"

"I see him quite often," said Danglars, tugging his chin, "he's a friend of mine."

"Every day, Count," Danglars said, "we find that we are obliged to reconsider things in the light of new considerations."

"You have seen Monte Cristo!"

However, instead of receiving these words in the favourable manner that Morcerf would have expected, Danglars raised an eyebrow and -- without inviting the count, who was still standing, to sit down -- said: "Monsieur le Comte, I shall have to consider the matter before giving you a reply."

"Well, here I am, neither vague nor forgetful, as you can see, since I have come to ask you to keep your promise."

"Quite so."

"Have you changed your mind," Morcerf added, "or are you forcing me to make an explicit request just for the pleasure of humiliating me?"

Danglars said nothing.

Danglars realized that, if the conversation were to continue along these lines, it would be to his disadvantage, so he said: "Monsieur le Comte, you must be justifiably surprised by my coolness; I understand that; so, believe me, you cannot regret it more than I do myself; but, I assure you, it is required by circumstances beyond my control."

"That's all very well, my dear sir," said the count. "And your average visitor might be satisfied with such mumbo-jumbo. But the Comte de Morcerf is not your average visitor and, when a man like myself comes to see another, when he reminds him of a promise and the other fails to keep his word, then he has the right to demand on the spot that he at least be given a good reason."

Danglars was a coward, but he did not wish to appear one. He was irritated by Morcerf's tone. "I have plenty of good reasons," he answered.

"That there is a good reason, but not one that I can easily give you."

"No," said Danglars. "I am postponing a decision, that's all."

"And what do you mean by that?"

"I suppose you must realize, however," said Morcerf, "that your reservations are of little use to me; and, in any event, one thing seems clear, which is that you are rejecting the match."

"You surely cannot be expecting that I should submit to your whim and wait, quietly and humbly, until you are more favourably disposed?"

"Very well then, Count, if you cannot wait, consider our arrangement annulled."

The count bit his lip until it bled in order to restrain himself from the outburst that his proud and irascible temperament urged him to make. Realizing, however, that in these circumstances he was the one who would appear ridiculous, he was already making his way to the door of the room when he changed his mind and returned. A cloud had passed across his brow, replacing injured pride with a hint of uncertainty. "Come, my dear Danglars," he said. "We have known one another for many years and should consequently show some consideration for one another. You owe me an explanation and the least I can ask is that you should tell me what unfortunate event has caused my son to forfeit your good intentions towards him."

"So to whom is it personal?" Morcerf asked in a strangled voice, the colour draining from his face.

A nervous shudder, doubtless the product of repressed anger, shook Morcerf. He made a supreme effort to contain himself. "I have the right," he said, "and the intention of requiring the satisfaction of an explanation. Do you have something against Madame de Morcerf? Is it that my wealth is insufficient? Or my political opinions, the contrary of yours…"

"It is nothing personal to the Viscount, that's all I can tell you, Monsieur," Danglars replied, becoming impertinent again when he saw that Morcerf was giving ground.

"None of that, Monsieur," said Danglars. "In those cases, it would be unforgivable since I knew all that when I entered the agreement. No, look no further. I am truly ashamed of having made you suggest such things. Believe me, we should leave it there. Let's settle for a simple delay, which will be neither an engagement nor a breach. For heaven's sake, there is no hurry! My daughter is seventeen and your son twenty-one. Time will move on, even as we pause, and events will occur… Things that appear obscure one day are sometimes only too clear the next; in that way, the cruellest slanders can vanish from one day to the next."

Danglars noted each of these symptoms and stared at the count with unusual self-confidence. "You should be grateful to me for refusing to clarify the matter," he said.

The next day, when he woke up, Danglars asked for the papers and they were brought to him at once. He put three or four aside, and picked up L'Impartial. This was the one managed and edited by Beauchamp. He quickly tore off the wrapper, opened it with nervous haste, cast a contemptuous eye over the home news and came to the "news in brief", where he stopped with a malicious grin at an item beginning with the words: "A correspondent writes from Janina…"

"Slanders! Did you say slanders, Monsieur!" Morcerf cried, white as a sheet. "Someone is slandering me!"

Danglars noticed that not once had Morcerf dared to ask if it was because of him -- Morcerf -- that Danglars was withdrawing his consent.

"So I must accept this rejection without a murmur?"

"I tell you, Count, look no further."

"It is above all painful for me. Yes, more than for you, because I was counting on the honour of a match with you, and a broken engagement always looks worse for the girl than for her fiancé."

"Very well, Monsieur, let's say no more," Morcerf muttered and, angrily slapping his gloves, left the room.

That evening, he had a long meeting with several of his friends and M. Cavalcanti, who had remained constantly in the salon with the ladies, was the last to leave the banker's house.

"Very well," he said, after reading it. "There is a little piece on Colonel Fernand which will quite probably relieve me of the obligation to give the Comte de Morcerf any further explanation."

"Did he take Baptistin with him?" Morcerf asked.

At this same moment, which is to say just as nine o'clock was striking, Albert de Morcerf, dressed in black and neatly buttoned up, arrived at the house in the Champs-Elysées in a state of some agitation and curtly asked for the count. "Monsieur le Comte went out some half an hour ago," said the concierge.

"No, Monsieur le Vicomte."

"Call Baptistin, I wish to speak with him."

"My friend," said Albert, "I beg you to forgive me for asking, but I wanted to find out from you whether your master is really not at home."

"No, Monsieur, he is not," Baptistin replied.

The concierge went to look for the valet himself and came back with him a short time later.

"Even to me?"

"I know how happy my master is to receive Monsieur and I should be careful to exclude him from any general instruction."

"I shall, Monsieur may be sure of that."

"Very well, I shall take a walk along the Champs-Elysées and be here at ten. If Monsieur le Comte returns before I do, ask him to be so good as to expect me."

"No, he ordered breakfast for ten o'clock."

"You are right, because I have a serious matter to discuss with him. Do you think he will be long?"

Albert left his hired cab at the count's door and went off on foot. Walking past the Allée des Veuves, he thought he recognized the count's horses standing at the door of Gosset's shooting gallery. He went over and, having recognized the horses, now recognized the driver. "Is the count shooting?" he asked him.

Several shots had rung out at regular intervals since Morcerf had approached the shooting gallery. He went in. The attendant was standing in the little garden. "I beg the vicomte's pardon," he said, "but would you mind waiting for a moment?"

"Yes, Monsieur," the coachman replied.

"Why is that, Philippe?" Albert asked: being a regular visitor, he was astonished at this incomprehensible barrier.

"As you see, Monsieur, I am standing by the door to my office."

"Please forgive me for following you here, my dear Count," said Albert, "and I must start by telling you that it was not the fault of your servants; I alone have been indiscreet. I went to your house and was told that you were out walking, but that you would return at ten o'clock for breakfast. I also went out for a walk to pass the time and it was then that I saw your horses and your carriage."

"What you say leads me to hope that you have come to invite me to breakfast."

"A Nubian?"

"I have come to find him. He is a friend."

"That's what I mean."

"Not even you, Philippe."

"Do you know the gentleman, then?"

"A negro."

"Oh, that's a different matter. I'll go in and tell him." And Philippe, driven by curiosity, went into the shooting gallery. A moment later Monte Cristo appeared at the door.

"His servant."

"And who loads his pistols?"

"Because the gentleman who is practising at the moment hires the whole range for himself and never shoots in front of anyone."

"My dear Count, I am going to fight today."

"No, thank you, there's no question of dining for the moment. Perhaps we may lunch together later, but I shall be poor company, confound it."

Morcerf followed him. Instead of targets, playing cards had been fixed to the board. From a distance, Morcerf thought it was a complete pack from the ace to the ten.

"Come in, Monsieur le Vicomte," Philippe whispered. "I've got something to show you."

"Then it's really serious. Let's not discuss it here, but go home. Ali, some water!"

"To be my second."

"What on earth is the matter?"

"So serious that I have come to ask a favour of you."

"Ah, now. That's serious."

"Which is?"

"On a point of honour."

"Yes, I realize that, but for what reason? You understand, people fight for all sorts of reasons."

The count rolled up his sleeves and went into the little hallway outside the shooting ranges where the marksmen are accustomed to wash their hands.

"In a duel, of course."

"Huh!" he said. "Were you playing piquet?"

"You! How on earth is that?"

"What do you mean?"

"No," said the count. "I was making a pack of cards."

"Those are aces and twos that you see; my bullets made them into threes, fives, sevens, eights, nines and tens."

Albert went over to look and saw that, indeed, the bullets had replaced the absent symbols with perfectly precise holes at perfectly equal distances, passing through each card at the points where it should have been painted. As he was walking across to the board, Morcerf also picked up two or three swallows that the count had shot when they were rash enough to fly within range of his pistol.

"What do you expect, my dear Viscount?" Monte Cristo said, wiping his hands on a towel that Ali brought. "I must fill in my idle moments. Come, now, let's go."

"As you see, I am perfectly calm."

"I'll be damned!" said Albert.

They both got into Monte Cristo's coupé and a few minutes later it put them down at the door of No. 30. Monte Cristo showed Morcerf into his study and offered him a seat. They sat down.

"Now, let's discuss this calmly," the count said.

"Come now, my dear Viscount, be reasonable."

"Yes. What does it matter to you that the castles of Janina were betrayed to the Turks by an officer called Fernand?"

"But he's a friend of yours!"

"In last night's newspaper, there was… But read it for yourself." And Albert handed Monte Cristo a paper in which he read the following:

"He fought for the independence of Greece; that is the slander."

"Beauchamp."

"Who are you going to fight?"

"What has he done to you?"

"I do."

"What have I found!"

"Well?" said Monte Cristo. "What have you found in that to shock you?"

"It matters because my father, the Comte de Morcerf, was christened Fernand."

"And your father served under Ali Pasha?"

"It's always one's friends that one fights."

"But you must at least have a reason."

A correspondent writes from Janina: We have learned a fact which has remained unknown, or at least unpublished up to now. The castles defending the town were betrayed to the Turks by a French officer in whom the vizier, Ali Tebelin, had placed all his trust. His name was Fernand.

"Or else he can write: 'We have every reason to believe that the Fernand in question has nothing to do with Monsieur le Comte de Morcerf, whose given name is also Fernand.'"

"I ask nothing better."

"This is precisely what is so perfidious: they have let time pass, and only now do they dig up these forgotten events to turn them into a scandal that might tarnish a man in a prominent position. Well, as the heir to my father's name, I should not like even the shadow of a doubt to hang over it. I shall send two seconds to Beauchamp, whose paper published this article, and he will retract it."

"Beauchamp will retract nothing."

"No, you will not, because he will retort that there were perhaps fifty officers with the name Fernand in the Greek army."

"We shall fight for all that. Oh, how I wish all this could go away! My father… such a noble soldier, such an illustrious career…"

"Then we must fight."

"So tell me: who the devil in France knows that this officer Fernand is the same as the Comte de Morcerf, and who today cares at all about Janina, which was captured in 1822 or 1823, I believe?"

"So why do you want to prevent me from doing the same?"

"Despite which, my dear Count, I found you just now, this very morning, engaged in a pastime that seems to accord ill with those ideas."

"Oh, you know what I think about duels. I explained my ideas to you in Rome, don't you remember?"

"I'm not saying that you should not fight, I'm just saying that a duel is a serious matter which demands reflection."

"You are wrong."

"So you admit that you would fight?"

"So you are going to send him your seconds?"

"That is to say, you refuse me the service I asked you?"

"Yes."

"Because, you must understand, my dear friend, one should never be exclusive. When one lives among madmen, one should train as a maniac. From one minute to the next, some hothead, with no greater reason to seek a quarrel with me than you have to seek one with Beauchamp, will come and hunt me out on the first flimsy pretext he can find, or send me his seconds, or insult me in a public place. Well, I shall be obliged to kill him."

"Heavens, yes!"

"I must have a full and total retraction; that would not be enough."

"Are you attempting to reform them?"

"Well, for example, from Haydée."

"Yes, when it affects me."

"Good Lord! But we live in times when so many things are allowed."

"No son should admit such a supposition touching his father's honour."

"Then before sending your seconds to Beauchamp, discover the facts."

"What a moralist you are, dear boy!"

"My dear Count, you are too indulgent by half."

"From whom?"

"I'm listening."

"If he didn't, and he admits as much, you should not hold it against him."

"No, not when it comes from a friend."

"Are you beyond the reach of good advice?"

"Did he reflect, do you think, before insulting my father?"

"Which is precisely the vice of the times."

"Do you count me as one?"

"And you are too stringent by half. Come now, just imagine… Listen: just imagine… Now don't be angry with what I am about to say…"

"Just suppose the fact he published was true."

"Yes."

"That's the way I am made."

"Involve a woman in this! What could she do?"

"Tell you that your father had nothing to do with the overthrow or death of her father, for example, or enlighten you on the subject, if by chance your father did have the misfortune…"

"Of course. If Beauchamp is inclined to retract, you must leave him with the merit of his goodwill. The retraction will be made just as surely. If he refuses, on the contrary, it will be time to confide your secret to two strangers."

"Absolutely."

"Yes, but let it be the last."

"Because in that way the matter will remain between you and Beauchamp."

"Then, one last piece of advice."

"Don't you want it?"

"Go and see him yourself."

"That's not done. It would be most unconventional."

"So…"

"I do."

"So you refuse to adopt this solution."

"Your affair is not a conventional one."

"So why must I go myself then?"

"What a thing to say!"

"Absolutely?"

"Don't send your seconds to Beauchamp."

"Today's friends are tomorrow's enemies."

"So you think I should go and see Beauchamp myself."

"They will not be strangers, but friends."

"Look at Beauchamp."

"On the contrary, I ask you to give it to me."

"Why?"

"Explain."

"So, I advise caution."

"I have already told you, my dear Count, that I cannot admit such a possibility."

"Yes."

"Alone?"

"I think you are right."

"Good; but you would do better not to go at all."

"So do as you say. It is still preferable to what you intended."

"In that case, tell me: if, despite all my efforts and all my approaches, I still have a duel, will you serve as my second?"

"Do so: they will suit perfectly."

"I shall go alone."

"I'm very glad to hear it."

"My dear Viscount," Monte Cristo said, with the utmost gravity, "you must have seen that I am devoted to you at any time or place, but the service you ask of me falls outside the range of those that I can perform for you."

"Why is that?"

"That's impossible."

"Very well, I shall take Franz and Château-Renaud."

"But at least, if I do have to fight, you will at least give me a little training with the épée or the pistol?"

"And meanwhile?"

"I beg your indulgence for my secret."

"Alone. When you want to obtain something touching a man's self-respect, you must spare his pride even the appearance of suffering."

"You may perhaps find out one day."

"What an odd fellow you are, indeed! So you don't want anything to do with it."

"Very well, we'll say no more. Farewell, Count."

"Absolutely nothing."

"Farewell, Viscount."

"No, that too is impossible."

Morcerf took his hat and went out. At the door, he picked up his cab and, repressing his anger as best he could, asked to be driven to Beauchamp's. Beauchamp was at his newspaper, so Albert had the driver proceed there.

Beauchamp was in an office which was dark and dusty, as newspaper offices are from the day they open for business. Albert de Morcerf was announced. He had the name repeated twice; then, still incredulous, called out: "Enter!"

Albert appeared. Beauchamp gave a cry as he saw his friend struggling over bundles of paper and stubbing his unpractised toes against the newspapers of every size that littered, not the wooden, but the red-tiled floor of his office. "This way, this way, my dear Albert," he said, offering the young man his hand. "What the devil brings you? Are you lost like Tom Thumb? Or have you just come to invite me to lunch? Try to find a chair. Look, there's one, over there by the geranium: the plant alone persuades me that there are leaves in the world that are not leaves of paper."

"What I want, my dear Beauchamp, is for you to print a retraction."

"You, Morcerf? What do you want?"

"Now, explain."

"I swear I do not… Baptiste! Yesterday's paper!" Beauchamp shouted.

"A retraction."

"Come, come!" Beauchamp said in surprise. "What matter? It's not possible."

"Yes," Albert replied, blushing.

"Thank you," Albert said for the second time, with a slight nod.

"A retraction on a matter that sullies the honour of a member of my family."

"Yes, Janina. You really do seem not to know why I am here."

Beauchamp read the passage, muttering: "A correspondent writes from Janina…"

"This officer is a relation of yours?" the journalist asked.

"No need, I've brought my own copy."

"So what would you like me to do for you?" Beauchamp asked gently.

"Janina?"

"You? A retraction? About what, Albert? Do sit down."

"The matter that your correspondent writes from Janina."

"You see that it is a serious matter," Morcerf said, when Beauchamp had finished.

"It's about your paper, Beauchamp, that I have come to talk to you," Albert said.

Albert sat down and Beauchamp re-read the offending words more attentively than the first time.

"There," said Albert, firmly, and even roughly. "You see: someone of my family has been insulted in your newspaper and I want a retraction…"

Beauchamp looked at Albert attentively and visibly with a great deal of goodwill. "Let's see, now," he said. "This is going to be a long discussion, because a retraction is always a serious matter. Sit down and I shall read the three or four lines again."

"You… want…"

"Yes, I want!"

"May I point out, my dear Viscount, that you are not addressing the House."

"I have no wish to do so," the young man retorted, standing up. "I am seeking retraction of an item that you published yesterday, and I shall obtain it. You are enough of a friend," Albert went on through clenched teeth, seeing that Beauchamp was also beginning to adopt an air of injured pride, "you are enough of a friend, and consequently know me well enough, I hope, to understand my tenacity in such circumstances."

"I may be your friend, Morcerf, but eventually you will make me forget it, with words such as those you have just used. Come now, let's not get angry with one another -- at least, not yet. You are upset, annoyed, irritated… So tell me, who is this relation called Fernand?"

"My father, no less," Albert said. "Fernand Mondego, Count of Morcerf, an old soldier who fought on twenty battlefields, whose noble scars are now being spattered with filthy mud from the roadside."

"But how do you know that this Fernand in the paper is your father?" Beauchamp asked.

"Your father?" Beauchamp said. "That's another matter. I can understand your indignation, my dear Albert… So, let's have another look at this…" And he re-read the note, this time weighing each word.

"I don't, of course, but others will. That is why I want the item to be denied."

At those words "I want", Beauchamp looked at Morcerf, then almost at once looked down again and thought for a moment.

"You will retract it, won't you, Beauchamp?" Morcerf went on, with still-contained but increasing anger.

"What!"

"But only when I am certain that the allegation is false."

"Yes," said Beauchamp.

Beauchamp looked at Albert with his own particular smile, that could accommodate itself to every emotion. "Monsieur," he continued, "- since we are on such terms -- if you came here to challenge me, then you should have done so straight away and not started talking about friendship and other tiresome matters of that kind which I have been patiently listening to for the past half-hour. If this is how things are to be between us from now on, tell me."

"The matter is worth clarifying, and I shall do so."

"At last!" Albert exclaimed.

"But what is there to clarify in all this, Monsieur?" said Albert, beside himself. "If you do not believe it is my father, say so at once. If you do believe it was him, then prepare to answer to me for that belief!"

"One moment! No threats, please, Monsieur Albert Mondego, Vicomte de Morcerf. I won't stand for them from my enemies, still less from my friends. So you want me to deny the report about Colonel Fernand, a report in which, on my honour, I had no part?"

"They will, unless you retract that infamous slander!"

"Yes!" Albert repeated, his voice rising to a crescendo.

"Yes, that is what I want!" said Albert, his head starting to spin.

"Otherwise, we fight?" Beauchamp went on as calmly as before.

"Very well," said Beauchamp. "Here is my reply, my dear sir. This report was not published by me and I had no knowledge of it; but you yourself have brought it to my attention and now I am interested. So the report will stand until it is either confirmed or denied by the proper authorities."

"And we shall meet this evening, if you wish, or at the latest tomorrow."

"Precisely, my dear sir."

"No, no, not so fast! I shall be here when the time comes, and in my opinion -- which I have the right to give, since I am the one who has been provoked -- in my opinion, as I say, the time is not yet. I know that you are a good swordsman, and I am a fair one. I know that you can hit three bull's-eyes out of six, which is roughly my own score. I know that a duel between us will be a serious matter, because you are a brave fellow and… well, I am too. Consequently I do not want to risk killing you or being killed by you for no reason. Now, I shall in turn ask you the question, and quite cat-eg-or-ic-al-ly: are you so set on this retraction that you will kill me if I do not make it, even though I have told you, and repeat to you, and swear on my honour, that I was not aware of this report; and even though it would be impossible for anyone except a Don Japhet like yourself to guess that Monsieur le Comte de Morcerf might be referred to under that name, Fernand?"

"In that case, Monsieur," Albert said, "I shall have the honour to send you my seconds. You may discuss the place and weapons with them."

"Three weeks!" Albert cried. "But three weeks are three centuries in which I shall be dishonoured!"

"Very well, in three weeks, agreed," said Morcerf. "But consider this: in three weeks, there will be no more delays and no subterfuge that you can use to avoid…"

"I am absolutely set on it."

"Very well, my good sir, I agree to cut my throat with you, but I want three weeks. In three weeks, come back and I shall either tell you: yes, the report is false, I shall annul it; or else, yes, the report is true, and I get the swords out of their scabbards, or the pistols from their cases, as you wish."

"Monsieur Albert de Morcerf," Beauchamp said, getting up in his turn, "I cannot throw you out of the window for another three weeks, that is to say, twenty-four days, and you will only have the right to assault me at that time. It is now August the twenty-ninth, so on the twenty-first of September… Until then -- and this is a piece of advice from a gentleman -- please let us spare one another the barking of bulldogs who cannot reach each other because they are chained." And, bowing to the young man, he turned his back on him and went through into the printing works.

"If you had remained my friend, I should say to you: Patience, friend. You have made yourself my enemy and I say to you: What do I care, Monsieur!"

After crossing the boulevard, Albert began whipping the front of his carriage, just as he had whipped the innocent papers, black with ink, which could do nothing to ease his frustration. At that moment he noticed Morrel who, head held high, with sparkling eyes and freely swinging arms, was walking along in front of the Chinese Baths from the direction of the Porte Saint-Martin and going towards the Madeleine. "Ah," Albert thought, with a sigh, "there is a contented man!" As it happens, he was not wrong.

Albert took out his feelings on a pile of newspapers which he spread across the room with sweeping blows from his stick. After that he left, but not without two or three backward glances towards the door of the printing works.