“What do you know about it?”
“I know enough. The Comte Ploare visits her.”
“How the devil does that concern my painting her?” There was iron in Bagshot’s voice.
“Who says you are painting her?”
The insult was conspicuous. Gaston quickly interposed. His clear strong voice rang down the table: “Will you let me come and see your canvas some day soon, Mr. Bagshot? I remember your picture ‘A Passion in the Desert,’ at the Academy this year. A fine thing: the leopard was free and strong. As an Englishman, I am proud to meet you.”
The young Frenchman stared. The quarrel had passed to a new and unexpected quarter. Gaston’s large, solid body, strong face, and penetrating eyes were not to be sneered out of sight. The Frenchman, an envious, disappointed artist, had had in his mind a bloodless duel, to give a fillip to an unacquired fame. He had, however, been drinking. He flung an insolent glance to meet Gaston’s steady look, and said:
“The cock crows of his dunghill!”
Gaston looked at the landlord, then got up calmly and walked down the table. The Frenchman, expecting he knew not what, sprang to his feet, snatching up a knife; but Gaston was on him like a hawk, pinioning his arms and lifting him off the ground, binding his legs too, all so tight that the Frenchman squealed for breath.
“Monsieur,” said Gaston to the landlord, “from the door or the window?”
The landlord was pale. It was in some respects a quarrel of races. For, French and English at the tables had got up and were eyeing each other. As to the immediate outcome of the quarrel, there could be no doubt. The English and Americans could break the others to pieces; but neither wished that. The landlord decided the matter: