It was evident enough that M. de Coralth had to exercise considerable constraint to listen to these fine projects. “I must warn you that you ought to speak in other terms of an honorable and honored gentleman,” he interrupted, at last.
“Eh! what! You know him then?”
“Yes, Madame d’Argeles’s defender is Baron Trigault.”
M. Wilkie’s heart bounded with joy, as he heard this name. “Ah! this is capital!” he exclaimed. “What! So it was Baron Trigault—the noted gambler—who owns such a magnificent house in the Rue de la Ville l’Eveque, the husband of that extremely stylish lady, that notorious cocotte——”
The viscount sprang from his chair, and interrupting M. Wilkie: “I advise you, for the sake of your own safety,” he said, measuring his words to give them greater weight, “never to mention the Baroness Trigault’s name except in terms of the most profound respect.”
There was no misunderstanding M. de Coralth’s tone, and his glance said plainly that he would not allow much time to pass before putting his threat into execution. Having always lived in a lower circle to that in which the baroness sparkled with such lively brilliancy, M. Wilkie was ignorant of the reasons that induced his distinguished friend to defend her so warmly; but he DID understand that it would be highly imprudent to insist, or even to discuss the matter. So, in his most persuasive manner, he resumed: “Let us say no more about the wife, but give our attention to the husband. So it was the baron who insulted me! A duel with him—what good luck! Well! he may sleep in peace to-night, but as soon as he is up in the morning he will find Costard and Serpillon on hand. Serpillon has not an equal as a second. First, he knows the best places for a meeting; then he lends the combatants weapons when they have none; he procures a physician; and he is on excellent terms with the journalists, who publish reports of these encounters.”
The viscount had never had a very exalted opinion of Wilkie’s intelligence, but now he was amazed to see how greatly he had overestimated it. “Enough of such foolishness,” he interrupted, curtly. “This duel will never take place.”
“I should like to know who will prevent it?”
“I will, if you persist in such an absurd idea. You ought to have sense enough to know that the baron would kick Serpillon out of the house, and that you would only cover yourself with ridicule. So, between your duel and my help make your choice, and quickly.”
The prospect of sending his seconds to demand satisfaction from Baron Trigault was certainly a very attractive one. But, on the other hand, Wilkie could not afford to dispense with M. de Coralth’s services. “But the baron has insulted me,” he urged.