"
"When you knew what?" Stolphe was staring at the madman.
"When I knew you were you. First I saw that ring--that ring on your hand.
It was my wife's. I gave it to her the first New Year after we married. I
saw it on your hand when you were drinking at the bar next door. Then I
asked them your name. I knew it. I had read your letters to my wife--"
"Your wife once on a time!"
Jean Jacques' eyes swam red. "My wife always and always--and at the last
there in my arms." Stolphe temporized. "I never knew you. She did not
leave you because of me. She came to me because--because I was there for
her to come to, and you weren't there. Why do you want to do me any
harm?" He still must be careful, for undoubtedly the man was mad--his
eyes were too bright.
"You were the death of her," answered Jean Jacques, leaning forward. "She
was most ill-ah, who would not have been sorry for her! She was poor. She
had been to you--but to live with a woman day by day, but to be by her
side when the days are done, and then one morning to say, 'Au revoir till
supper' and then go and never come back, and to take money and rings that
belonged to her! . . . That was her death--that was the end of Carmen
Barbille; and it was your fault."
"You would do me harm and not hurt her! Look how she treated you--and
others."
Jean Jacques half rose from his seat in sudden rage, but he restrained
himself, and sat down again.
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