“You know me very well, M. de Malmy; but as you ask, I will tell you. I am Jean Baptiste Drouet, postmaster at St. Menehould. I am not of noble birth, I know full well; but for six years have I served my country as a soldier, and that is better than a gentleman who spends his life in eating, drinking, and hunting. This I say for the benefit of you and your friends, and if you want me, you know where to find me.”
Saying these words, Drouet pushed De Malmy aside, and turned to confront two or three other young gentlemen, who, having dismounted, had come to join in the quarrel.
“When we change horses at your post-house, M. Drouet,” said one of these young men, “we do not generally approach, but send our domestics to bear our orders to you.”
“I would much rather deal with your servants than with you, M. de Courtement. They, at least, have not sold their wives or daughters in the Parc au Cerfs.”
The young noble took this as a sarcasm on his birth, with regard to which infamous reports had been bruited about.
He had a hunting-knife in his belt, and suddenly drew it, maddened with anger.
But before the knife could do any mischief, Drouet drew a pistol from his pocket, and presented it full in the face of the Chevalier.
“Monsieur,” said he, “I could shoot you like I would a wild beast; and two hundred people would bear witness that you offered the first insult; but the time has not yet come when all shall have their dues. So go your way in peace, and let the matter stand as it is.”
“Oh, without doubt, that proceeding would suit you wonderfully well,” said M. de Malmy; “but, for the sake of an example, I must proceed otherwise.”
Raising his whip, he advanced on M. Drouet, who, making a spring to one side, jumped on a table, and cried out, in a powerful tone of voice, “Help! To my assistance, men of St. Menehould!”