“I heard the sentry call you so, Monsieur,” I answered, bowing. I did not add that I thought it strange he should be in the household and seemingly so near the person of M. le Comte—for his estates lay far south on the border of the Pyrenees, and had always been reckoned more Spanish than French.
“Come,” he cried roughly, “enough of this play! Give me the message. M. le Comte is ill and will see no one.”
“Then I will wait till he is well again, Monsieur,” I said, as calmly as I could, and made for the door, head in air.
But his voice arrested me.
“Stop, you fool!” he cried.
I turned upon him, all my blood in my face.
“That is not the way one gentleman addresses another, Monsieur,” I said between my teeth. “I must ask Monsieur to apologize.”
“Apologize!” he cried, purple with rage. “Upon my word, these Gascon paupers are insufferable!”
But I could bear no more—no Marsan could endure an insult such as that—and I sprang upon him and struck him full in the mouth with my open hand. He had his poniard out in an instant and lunged at me,—which I thought a cowardly thing,—but I stepped back out of harm’s reach and whipped out my sword before he could strike a second time. He paused when he saw my point at his breast.
“Now,” I said, “perhaps Monsieur will draw and fight like a gentleman, not like a blackguard.”