“M. le Viscount!” cried Sophie, pale with terror, placing herself, at the same time, between us.
He smiled a grim smile, grinding his teeth as he did so.
“I am determined, mademoiselle. Had he been a gentleman, I would chastise him with a sword; but as he is not, I shall punish him with this whip.”
He raised it.
I looked for something with which to defend myself. At that moment, a man sprang over one of the tables, seized the Marquis with one hand, and possessed himself of the whip with the other.
“Monsieur,” said he, “whips were made for horses and dogs. Réné Besson is a man.”
“A man?” repeated the Viscount, furiously.
“Yes, a man; and one whom you may not insult.”
“Who are you?” asked the Viscount.