His mission in Grenoble was forgotten; mademoiselle above-stairs was forgotten; the need for caution and the fear of the Condillacs were forgotten; everything was thrust from his mind but the situation of the moment.
Amid the hush that followed, the stranger picked himself slowly up, and sought to wipe the filth from his face and garments.

His servant and his friend flew to his aid, but he waved them aside, and advanced towards Garnache, eyes blazing, lips sneering.
"Perhaps," said he, in that soft, foreign tone of his, laden now with fierce mock-politeness, "perhaps monsieur proposes to apologize again." "Sir, you are mad," interposed Gaubert.

"You are a foreigner, I perceive, else you would--" But Garnache thrust him quietly aside.

"You are very kind, Monsieur Gaubert," said he, and his manner now was one of frozen calm--a manner that betrayed none of the frenzy of seething passion underneath.
"I think, sir," said he to the stranger, adopting something of that gentleman's sardonic manner, "that it will be a more peaceful world without you.

It is that consideration restrains me from apologizing.