"Ah!" Victor clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels.
"At the Hôtel de Périgny you called me a fool when the Chevalier struck me with his sword. I shall pass over that. The Chevalier was mad, and we all were excited. But three times in this tavern you have annoyed me. Your temperament, being that of a poet, at times gets the better of you. My knowledge of this accounts for my patience."
"That is magnanimous, Monsieur," railingly.
"Were I not bound for a far country I might call you to account."
"It is possible, then?"
"Braver men than you find it to their benefit to respect this sword of mine."
"Then you have a sword?"
The vicomte laughed. It was real laughter, unfeigned. He was too keen a banterer himself not to appreciate this gift in the poet. "What a lively lad you are!" he exclaimed. "But four affronts make a long account for a single night."
"I am ready now and at all times to close the account."
"Do you love Paris?" asked the vicomte, adding his mite to the bantering.