“Count,” said Philippe, “I fear you are losing your senses.”
“You wish to kill M. de Cagliostro to please the queen; and, for the same reason, you wish to turn me into ridicule.”
“Ah! this is too much,” cried Philippe, “and proves to me that you have not as generous a heart as I thought.”
“Pierce it then,” cried Charny, exposing himself as Philippe made another pass.
The sword glanced along his ribs, and the blood flowed rapidly.
“At last,” cried Charny, “I am wounded. Now I may kill you if I can.”
“Decidedly,” said Philippe, “you are mad. You will not kill me—you will only be disabled without cause, and without profit; for no one will ever know for what you have fought;” and as Charny made another pass, he dexterously sent his sword flying from his hand; then, seizing it, he broke it across his foot. “M. de Charny,” said he, “you did not require to prove to me that you were brave; you must therefore detest me very much when you fight with such fury.”
Charny did not reply, but grew visibly pale, and then tottered.
Philippe advanced to support him, but he repulsed him, saying, “I can reach my carriage.”
“At least take this handkerchief to stop the blood.”