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Updated: June 10, 2025
Villiard took the four glasses filled with the wine and laid them on a shelf against the wall, then began to put the table in order for their supper, and to take the pot from the fire. Dubarre noticed that just above where the glasses stood on the shelf a crucifix was hanging, and that red crystal sparkled in the hands and feet where the nails should be driven in.
Dubarre asked, nodding towards the glasses. "Two of the glasses have poison in them, two have good red wine only. We will move them about and then drink. Both may die, or only one of us." Villiard looked at the other with contracting, questioning eyes. "You would play that game with me?" he asked, in a mechanical voice. "It would give me great pleasure." The voice had a strange, ironical tone.
"I win!" Dubarre stood up. Then, leaning over the table towards the dying man, he added: "You let her die-well! Would you know the truth? She loved you always." Villiard gasped, and his look wandered vaguely along the opposite wall. Dubarre went on. "I played the game with you honestly, because because it was the greatest man could play. And I, too, sinned against her. Now die!
Villiard took the one nearest himself. Dubarre took one also. Without a word they lifted the glasses and drank. "Again," said Dubarre. "You choose," responded Villiard. Dubarre lifted the one nearest himself, and Villiard picked up the other. Raising their glasses again, they bowed to each other and drank. The watch struck twelve, and stopped its silvery chiming.
That night he might have been seen feeling about the grass in a moon-lit garden. At last he put something in his pocket with a quick, harsh chuckle of satisfaction. It was a little black bottle with a well-worn cork. They met at last, Dubarre, and Villiard, the man who had stolen from him the woman he loved. Both had wronged the woman, but Villiard most, for he had let her die because of jealousy.
"I win!" Dubarre stood up. Then, leaning over the table towards the dying man, he added: "You let her die-well! Would you know the truth? She loved you always." Villiard gasped, and his look wandered vaguely along the opposite wall. Dubarre went on. "I played the game with you honestly, because because it was the greatest man could play. And I, too, sinned against her. Now die!
That night he might have been seen feeling about the grass in a moon-lit garden. At last he put something in his pocket with a quick, harsh chuckle of satisfaction. It was a little black bottle with a well-worn cork. They met at last, Dubarre, and Villiard, the man who had stolen from him the woman he loved. Both had wronged the woman, but Villiard most, for he had let her die because of jealousy.
The ticking of a huge, old-fashioned repeating-watch on the wall was in unison with these. Dubarre rose from the table, threw himself upon the little pile of otter- skins, and lay watching Villiard and mechanically studying the little room.
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