He was in demand in drawing-rooms, sought for by waltzers, and he inspired in men that smiling enmity which one has for people of energetic physique. He was suspected of some love affairs which showed him capable of much discretion, for a young man. He lived happy, tranquil, in a state of moral well-being most complete. It was well known that he was good at handling a sword, and still better with a pistol.
“If I were to fight,” he said, “I should choose a pistol. With that weapon, I am sure of killing my man.”
Now, one evening, having escorted two young women, friends of his, to the theater, being also accompanied by their husbands, he offered them, after the play, an ice at Tortoni's. They had been there about ten minutes, when he perceived that a gentleman, seated at a neighboring table, gazed persistently at one of the ladies of his party. She seemed troubled and disturbed, lowering her eyes. Finally, she said to her husband:
“That man is staring me out of countenance. I do not know him; do you?”
The husband, who had seen nothing, raised his eyes but declared:
“No, not at all.”
The young woman replied, half laughing, half angry: “It is very annoying; that individual is spoiling my ice.”
The husband shrugged his shoulders, replying:
“Pshaw! Pay no attention to him. If we were to notice all the insolent people we meet, there would be no end to it.”
But the Viscount arose brusquely. He could not allow this unknown man to spoil an ice he had offered. It was to him that the injury was addressed, as it was through him and for him that his friends had entered this café. The affair, then, concerned him only. He advanced toward the man and said to him: