"M. de Montcrabeau," cried Ernanton, "if you do that, remember it will be a personal offense to me."
Montcrabeau hesitated.
"Good," replied St. Maline, "we have our oath, and M. de Carmainges is so strict that he will not infringe discipline; we cannot draw our swords against each other; therefore, a light, Montcrabeau, a light!"
Montcrabeau descended, and in five minutes returned with a light, which he offered to St. Maline.
"No, no," said he; "keep it; I may, perhaps, want both hands."
And he made a step forward.
"I take you all to witness," cried Ernanton, "that I am insulted without reason, and that in consequence"—and he drew his sword—"I will bury this sword in the breast of the first man who advances."
St. Maline, furious, was about to draw his sword also; but before he had time to do so, the point of Ernanton's was on his breast, and as he advanced a step, without Ernanton's moving his arm, St. Maline felt the iron on his flesh, and drew back furious, but Ernanton followed him, keeping the sword against his breast. St. Maline grew pale; if Ernanton had wished it, he could have pinned him to the wall, but he slowly withdrew his sword.
"You merit two deaths for your insolence," said he, "but the oath of which you spoke restrains me, and I will touch you no more; let me pass. Come, madame, I answer for your free passage."
Then appeared a woman, whose head was covered by a hood, and her face by a mask, and who took Ernanton's arm, tremblingly. St. Maline stood by, stifling with rage at his merited punishment. He drew his dagger as Ernanton passed by him. Did he mean to strike Ernanton, or only to do what he did? No one knew, but as they passed, his dagger cut through the silken hood of the duchess and severed the string of her mask, which fell to the ground. This movement was so rapid that in the half light no one saw or could prevent it. The duchess uttered a cry; St. Maline picked up the mask and returned it to her, looking now full in her uncovered face.