“The mos' fine art, mademoiselle. How long you think it take M. de Winterset to learn that speech after he write it out? It is a mix of what is true and the mos' chaste art. Monsieur has become a man of letters. Perhaps he may enjoy that more than the wars. Ha, ha!”
Mr. Bantison burst into a roar of laughter. “Do French gentlemen fight lackeys? Ho, ho, ho! A pretty country! We English do as was done to-night, have our servants beat them.”
“And attend ourselves,” added M. Beaucaire, looking at the Duke, “somewhat in the background? But, pardon,” he mocked, “that remind' me. Francois, return to Mr. Bantison and these gentlemen their weapons.”
“Will you answer a question?” said Molyneux mildly.
“Oh, with pleasure, monsieur.”
“Were you ever a barber?”
“No, monsieur,” laughed the young man.
“Pah!” exclaimed Bantison. “Let me question him. Now, fellow, a confession may save you from jail. Do you deny you are Beaucaire?”
“Deny to a such judge?”
“Ha!” said Bantison. “What more do you want, Molyneux? Fellow, do you deny that you came to London in the ambassador's suite?”