“And now, my dear Monsieur de Wardes, let us speak as loud as you please.”
“Do not defy me.”
“I do defy you, for you are known to be an evil-minded man; if you do that, you will be looked upon as a coward, too; and Monsieur would have you hanged, this evening, at his window-casement. Speak, my dear De Wardes, speak.”
“I have fought already.”
“But not quite enough, yet.”
“I see, you would not be sorry to fight with me while my wounds are still open.”
“No; better still.”
“The deuce! you are unfortunate in the moment you have chosen; a duel, after the one I have just fought, would hardly suit me; I have lost too much blood at Boulogne; at the slightest effort my wounds would open again, and you would really have too good a bargain.”
“True,” said De Guiche; “and yet, on your arrival here, your looks and your arms showed there was nothing the matter with you.”
“Yes, my arms are all right, but my legs are weak; and then, I have not had a foil in my hand since that devil of a duel; and you, I am sure, have been fencing every day, in order to carry your little conspiracy against me to a successful issue.”