“Well, then?”
Martial’s coolness drove Maurice frantic.
“Well,” he replied, with extreme violence, “my hatred is unabated even if my scorn is diminished. You have owed me an opportunity to avenge myself, Monsieur, ever since the day we met on the square at Sairmeuse in the presence of Mademoiselle Lacheneur. You said to me on that occasion: ‘We shall meet again.’ Here we stand now face to face. What insults must I heap upon you to decide you to fight?”
A flood of crimson dyed Martial’s face. He seized one of the swords which Bavois offered him, and assumed an attitude of defence.
“You will have it so,” said he in a husky voice. “The thought of Marie-Anne can no longer save you.”
But the blades had scarcely crossed before a cry from Jean and from Corporal Bavois arrested the combat.
“The soldiers!” they exclaimed; “let us fly!”
A dozen soldiers were indeed approaching at the top of their speed.
“Ah! I spoke the truth!” exclaimed Maurice. “The coward came, but the gendarmes accompanied him.”
He bounded back, and breaking his sword over his knee, he hurled the fragments in Martial’s face, saying: