“Oh! mon Dieu, I know you fear no one, and that Rémy the doctor is but a poor companion; still, two men are not so likely to be attacked as one. Secondly, because I have a great deal of good advice to give you.”
“Come, my dear Rémy, come. We will speak of her; and next to the pleasure of seeing the woman you love, I know none greater than talking of her.”
Bussy then took the arm of the young doctor, and they set off. Rémy on the way tried hard to induce Bussy to return early, insisting that he would be more fit for his duel on the morrow.
Bussy smiled. “Fear nothing,” said he.
“Ah! my dear master, to-morrow you ought to fight like Hercules against Antæus—like Theseus against the Minotaur—like Bayard—like something Homeric, gigantic, impossible; I wish people to speak of it in future times as the combat, par excellence, and in which you had not even received a scratch.”
“Be easy, my dear Rémy, you shall see wonders. This morning I put swords in the hands of four fencers, who during eight minutes could not touch me once, while I tore their doublets to pieces.”
So conversing, they arrived in the Rue St. Antoine.
“Adieu! here we are,” said Bussy.
“Shall I wait for you?”
“Why?”