The most judicial mind has
its revolts against concise statement. In these boiling moods Rice did
not want evidence; he knew enough. But cooler counsel checked him. There
were plenty of grounds and plenty of days yet to come for a political
duel, in which no names and no family honor need be mixed.
Rice turned back from the gallery steps with a start at hearing a voice
behind him. It was only young Pierre Menard at his father's gate. The
veins on the child's temples were distended by their embarrassed
throbbing, and his cheeks shone darkly red.
"I want, in fact, to speak to you, Monsieur Zhone," stammered Pierre,
looking anxiously down the street lest the slave or Jean Lozier should
appear before he had his say.
"What is it, colonel junior?" said Rice, returning to the gate.
"I want, in fact, to have some talk about our family."
"I hope you haven't any disagreement in your family that the law will
have to settle?"
"Oh, no, monsieur, we do not quarrel much. And we never should quarrel
at all if we had a mother to teach us better," said young Pierre
adroitly.
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