"Confiteor,—I confess—."
"Who is called—?"
"La Sraeralda," said Phœbus, gayly. All his heedlessness had gradually returned.
At this name, the shadow's grasp shook the arm of Phœbus in a fury.
"Captain Phœbus de Châteaupers, thou liest!"
Any one who could have beheld at that moment the captain's inflamed countenance, his leap backwards, so violent that he disengaged himself from the grip which held him, the proud air with which he clapped his hand on his swordhilt, and, in the presence of this wrath the gloomy immobility of the man in the cloak,—any one who could have beheld this would have been frightened. There was in it a touch of the combat of Don Juan and the statue.
"Christ and Satan!" exclaimed the captain. "That is a word which rarely strikes the ear of a Châteaupers! Thou wilt not dare repeat it."
"Thou liest!" said the shadow coldly.
The captain gnashed his teeth. Surly monk, phantom, superstitions,—he had forgotten all at that moment. He no longer beheld anything but a man, and an insult.
"Ah! this is well!" he stammered, in a voice stifled with rage. He drew his sword, then stammering, for anger as well as fear makes a man tremble:—"Here! On the spot! Come on! Swords! Swords! Blood on the pavement!"
But the other never stirred. When he beheld his adversary on guard and ready to parry,—
"Captain Phœbus," he said, and his tone vibrated with bitterness, "you forget your appointment."
The rages of men like Phœbus are milk-soups, whose ebullition is calmed by a drop of cold water. This simple remark caused the sword which glittered in the captain's hand to be lowered.
"Captain," pursued the man, "to-morrow, the day after to-morrow, a month hence, ten years hence, you will find me ready to cut your throat; but go first to your rendezvous."
"In sooth," said Phœbus, as though seeking to capitulate
