The scene that ensued was curious. Beausire, furious with rage, was making wild and unskilful passes at his adversary, who, still seated on the sofa, parried them with the utmost ease, laughing immoderately all the time.
Beausire began to grow tired and also frightened, for he felt that if this man, who was now content to stand on the defensive, were to attack him in his turn, he should be done for in a moment. Suddenly, however, by a skilful movement, the stranger sent Beausire’s sword flying across the room; it went through an open window, and fell into the street.
“Oh, M. Beausire,” said he, “you should take more care; if your sword falls on any one, it will kill him.”
Beausire ran down at his utmost speed to fetch his sword, and meanwhile, Oliva, seizing the hand of the victor, said:
“Oh, sir, you are very brave; but as soon as you are gone, Beausire will beat me.”
“Then I will remain.”
“Oh, no; when he beats me, I beat him in return, and I always get the best of it, because I am not obliged to take any care; so if you would but go, sir——”
“But, my dear, if I go now, I shall meet M. Beausire on the stairs; probably the combat will recommence, and as I shall not feel inclined to stand on the staircase, I shall have to kill M. Beausire.”
“Mon Dieu! it is true.”
“Well, then, to avoid that I will remain here.”