The unfortunate gallant believed that Madame Dugazon had made a confession to her husband or that in some way he had been betrayed, and, in fear and trembling, handed over both portrait and letters to his assailant, who retired, enchanted with the success of his expedition.
No sooner, however, had the actor and his pistol departed, than M. de Cazes’s alarm gave way to indignation, and he followed in pursuit, shouting: “Thief! Assassin! Stop the villain!” And the servants, roused by his cries, came running to the spot.
Dugazon, who was leisurely descending the stairs, turned round, and, in no way disconcerted, coolly replied: “Perfect, Monsieur; admirably played! The scene is excellent! The servants would be quite deceived by it, were they not accustomed to our farces.” Then, without quickening his pace, he passed through the astonished lackeys—who, uncertain whether it was a comedy or not, did not dare to lay hands on him—gained the door, made the discomfited magistrate a profound congé, and swaggered off.
Some days later, M. de Gazes happened to be on the stage of the Comédie-Italienne, at the conclusion of the performance, and was there espied by Dugazon, who could not resist the temptation to read his wife’s admirer a second lesson. Accordingly, he waited until the crowd had dispersed and he was unobserved, and then, stealing up behind the maître des requêtes, dealt him four or five sharp cuts across the shoulders with a cane.
The luckless young man turned round, furious with rage and pain, and, perceiving his “rival,” poured forth a torrent of abuse and threats.
The actor, quite unmoved, begged him to explain himself and inquired, with a bland smile, if he were rehearsing a tirade from some play.
The infuriated magistrate rejoined by calling Dugazon “an assassin,” and asserting that he had just dealt him several blows with a cane.