“Then you will compel me to take satisfaction in another manner.”
“How?”
“I exact that you burn the numbers before my eyes, or I will proceed with you as with the journalist.”
“Oh! a beating,” said Cagliostro, laughing.
“Neither more nor less, sir. Doubtless you can call your servants.”
“Oh, I shall not call my servants; it is my own business. I am stronger than you, and if you approach me with your cane, I shall take you in my arms and throw you across the room, and shall repeat this as often as you repeat your attempt.”
“Well, M. Hercules, I accept the challenge,” said Philippe, throwing himself furiously upon Cagliostro, who, seizing him round the neck and waist with a grasp of iron, threw him on a pile of cushions, which lay some way off, and then remained standing as coolly as ever.
Philippe rose as pale as death. “Sir,” said he, in a hoarse voice, “you are in fact stronger than I am, but your logic is not as strong as your arm; and you forgot, when you treated me thus, that you gave me the right to say, ‘Defend yourself, count, or I will kill you.’”
Cagliostro did not move.
“Draw your sword, I tell you, sir, or you are a dead man.”