Petitot--he said but a little while ago that he would buy this house if he lived long enough." "He did ?" The Syndic came to his feet as if a spring had raised him.
"Certainly.

And he is a rich man, you know." "May the Bise search his bones!" Blondel cried, trembling with fury.

For this was the realisation of his worst fears.

Petitot to live in his house, lie warm in his bed, sneer at his memory across the table that had been his, rule in the Council where he had been first! Petitot, that miserable crawler who had clogged his efforts for years, who had shared, without deserving, his honours, who had spied on him and carped at him day by day and hour by hour! Petitot to succeed him! To be all and own all, and sun himself in the popular eye, and say "Geneva, it is I!" While he, Blondel, lay rotting and forgotten, stark, beneath snow and rain, winter wind and summer drought! Perish Geneva first! Perish friend and foe alike! The Syndic wavered.

His hand shook, his thin dry cheek burned with fever, his lips moved unceasingly.