Half suffocated as he
was, he made a strong effort to speak, and succeeded.
"Not you--not you!" he gasped, "Do not touch me! Do not come near
me! Him!--him!" And he pointed to Fontenelle who still stood erect,
swaying slightly to and fro with a dazed far-off look in his eyes--
but now--as the frenzied soubrette beckoned him, he moved unsteadily
to the side of his mortally wounded opponent, and there, through
weakness, not emotion, dropped on his knees. Miraudin looked at him
with staring filmy eyes.
"How I have hated you, Monsieur le Marquis!" he muttered thickly,
"How I have hated you! Yes--as Cain hated Abel! For we--we are
brothers as they were--born of the same father--ah! You start!" for
Fontenelle uttered a gasping cry--"Yes--in spite of your pride, your
lineage, your insolent air of superiority--YOUR father was MY
father!--the late Marquis was no more satisfied with one wife than
any of us are!--and had no higher code of honour! YOUR mother was a
grande dame,--MINE was a 'light o' love' like this feeble creature!"
and he turned his glance for a moment on the shuddering, wailing
Jeanne Richaud. "YOU were the legal Marquis--_I_ the illegal
genius! . . . yes--genius--!"
He broke off, struggling for breath.
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