Suddenly all that was good in him seemed to die. This woman should be
his; since not honestly, dishonestly. Revenge, upon one and all of
them, priests, soldiers, and women, and the other three fools whom
madame had tricked as she had him. One of his furies seized him. Some
men die of rage; D'Herouville went mad. He looked wildly around for
physical relief, something upon which to vent his rage. The blood
gushed into his brain--something to break, to rend, to mangle. He
seized a small sapling, bore it to the ground, put his foot on it and
snapped it with ease. He did not care that he lacerated his hands or
that the branches flying back scratched his face. He laughed fiercely.
The Chevalier first, that meddling son of the left-hand whom his father
had had legitimatized; then the vicomte and the poet. As for
madame . . . Yes, yes! That would be it. That would wring her proud
heart. Agony long drawn out; agony which turns the hair grey in a
single night. That would be it. He could not return to the fort yet;
he must regain his calm. Money would buy what he wanted, and the ring
on his finger was worth many louis, the only thing of value he had this
side of France.
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