ST. OUEN—ROUEN.
“Ah! ha!” said the Marquis, “I have had other masters than Vol au Vent! Didst never hear of Vol au Vent’s younger brother!”
“A La Carte!” hissed the Marquis.
“Table D’Hote!” was the determined reply, and again the swords crossed.
ON THE WAY TO PARIS.
It was over in a moment. The Marquis, springing lightly back, made a rapid advance. His rapier made a motion that was as quick as the stroke of a cobra. It was as fatal. A lightning-like potage, to which the Count opposed a patisserie in vain, and he fell to the ground lifeless, the thirsty sand drinking up his blood.
“Haricot!” said the Marquis, as he wiped his sword as cooly as though blood had never stained it, and walked deliberately away.