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 definite circumstances, and people approved when you wanted to assassinate me, Maurice, because it appeared to you that I had been intimate with your mistress. But killing a police-inspector is not the action of a man of fashion.”

“Be silent,” exclaimed Maurice, “be silent, scoundrel! I killed the poor Inspector instinctively, not knowing what I was doing. I am grieved to my heart about it. But it is not I, it is you who are the guilty one; you who are the murderer. It was you who lured me along this path of revolt and violence which leads to the pit. You have been my undoing. You have sacrificed my peace of mind, my happiness, to your pride and your wickedness, and all in vain; for I warn you, Arcade, you will not succeed in what you are undertaking.”

The concierge brought in the newspapers. On seeing them Maurice grew pale. They announced the outrage in the Rue de Ramey in huge headlines:

“An Inspector killed—Two cyclist policemen and two bakers seriously wounded—Three houses blown up, numerous victims.”

Maurice let the paper drop, and said in a weak, plaintive voice:

“Arcade, why did you not slay me in the little garden at Versailles amidst the roses, to the song of the blackbirds?”