Morrisel, who was already old, grey, thin, feeble, mean-looking and poverty-stricken in appearance, was taking a cup of coffee in a corner.
"Changeur," he said, without rising, and in dulcet tones, that contrasted oddly with the words he uttered,—"Changeur, my lad, I forbid you to give up the billiard-table."
"But, monsieur," replied Changeur, in great embarrassment, "if indeed M. le Baron de B—— wishes me to give him my cue...."
"If you give your cue to M. le Baron, Changeur, I shall take it out of the hands of M. le Baron and break it across your head!"
M. le Baron de B—— saw clearly enough that Changeur was merely being used as a spark to kindle the flame. The thrust had, in fact, been aimed at him and he returned the stroke in the direction whence it came.
"It seems to me, monsieur," he said, "you are very anxious to pick a quarrel with me."
"I am charmed, monsieur, that you see things so plainly!"
"And what is your excuse for picking a quarrel with me?"
"Why, because you have abused your position with respect to that young fellow, and all misuse of power, no matter what it is, appears to me odious."
"Do you know who I am, monsieur?" said the Baron de B——, striding towards Morrisel with a threatening air.