"You needn't try to pick a quarrel with us, my dear fellow. It wouldn't be worth your while. We should only be able to furnish you with a couple of minutes' amusement."
"Yes, yes, be sensible, my dear fellow," good-naturedly remarked the other second. "You ought to consider yourself very fortunate that this affair ended as it did. You are not injured at all, and your adversary's wound is very slight,—a very fortunate ending, you must admit. How we should have felt if we had had to carry you home dead! Think of your wife and your little daughter."
"My wife and daughter!" exclaimed Cloarek, with a violent start. "Ah, yes, you are right."
And the tears rose to his eyes.
"I am a fool, and worse than a fool," he exclaimed. "But it is not my fault. A man who has too much blood is always quarrelling, as they used to say down in Brittany."
"Then you had better put your feet in mustard water and call in a doctor to bleed you, my friend, but don't take a sword for a lancet, and, above all, don't draw blood from others under the pretext that you have too much yourself."
"And above all, remember that you are a magistrate, a man of peace," added the other.
"That is all very fine," retorted Yvon, with a sigh, "but you don't know what it is to have a judge's robe on your back and too much blood in your veins."
After he had thanked his seconds heartily for their kind offices, Cloarek was about to separate from them when one of them remarked: "We shall see each other again at the masquerade ball this evening, of course. I understand that all you reverend judges are to allow yourselves considerable license this evening, and disport yourselves like ordinary mortals."
"I did not intend to go, as my wife is not as well as usual; but she insisted so much that I finally consented," replied Yvon.