It's a dangerous
business, Professor Valeyon. You've lost one daughter; the other may go
too."
Bressant's voice, which had been growing hoarser and more rapid as he
went on, abruptly sank, at this last sentence, into a whisper; yet, had
any one been there to listen, the whisper would have sounded louder and
more terrible than the most violent vociferation of angry passion. It
breathed a sudden concentration of evil intelligence, that startled like
the hiss of a serpent.
He stopped his short, passionate walk, and leaned against his table,
with his arms once more folded. The idea that he had been tampered with
had gained possession of him, and nothing tends more to demoralize a
man, and make him unmanageably angry. His was an uncandid position,
without doubt: he was attempting to lay upon others the responsibility
which--the greater part of it, at least--should have been borne by
himself; but still, the vein of reasoning he pursued was connected, and
comprehensible, and was rendered awkward by an ugly little thread of
something like truth and justice, which showed here and there along its
course.
"They've taught me to love; did they think they could stop there? that I
shouldn't learn to lie, as well? and to hate, and be revengeful? and to
be afraid? Was I so bad when I came here, that all this has made me no
worse? I was happy, at any rate; my brain was clear; my mind had no
fear, and no weariness--it was like an athlete; my blood was cool.
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