“Well done, well done!” cried twenty voices in a breath; while the whole room rose in a confused manlier to take one side or other in the contest, several crowding around the little man, whose voice had suddenly lost its tone of easy impertinence, and was now heard swearing away, with the most guttural intonation.
“What kind of swordsman are you?” whispered Pioche, in my ear.
“Sufficiently expert to care little for an enemy of his caliber.”
“Ah, you don't know that,” replied he; “it's François, the maïtre d'armes of the Fourth.”
“You must not fight him, Monsieur,” said mademoiselle, as she laid her hand on mine, and looked up into my face with a most expressive glance.
“They are waiting for you without, mon lieutenant,” said an old sergeant-major, touching his cap as he spoke.
“Come along,” said Pioche, with a deeply-muttered oath; “and, by the blood of Saint Louis, it shall be the last time Maitre Francois shows his skill in fence, if I cost them the fire of a platoon to-morrow.”
I was hurried along by the crowd to the court, a hundred different advisers whispering their various counsels in my ears as I went.
“Take care of his lunge in tierce,—mind that,” cried one.
“Push him outside the arm,—outside, remember; take my advice, young man,” said an old sous-officier,—“close on him at once, take his point where he gives it, and make sure of your own weapon.”