"Eye of the bull, yes!"
"Ho! D'Hérouville, wait for me!"
Madame sprang to her feet screaming: "Vicomte, save us!" She flew to the door.
"Back, Madame," warned the Chevalier, "or you will have me killed." With his left arm he barred the door.
"Have patience, sweet bird, whom I shall soon take to an eery nest. To be sure I shall save you!" From behind a clumb of hazel the vicomte came forth, a sword in his hand.
It was the tone, not the words, which enveloped madame's heart in a film of ice. One way or the other, it did not matter, she was lost.
"Guard the Chevalier, men!" cried D'Hérouville, wheeling. "We shall wipe out all bad debts while we are at it. D'Halluys, look to yourself!"
"You fat head!" laughed the vicomte, parrying in a circle. "Did I not tell you that I should kill you?"
Had he been alone the Chevalier would have rushed his opponents. God help madame when he fell, for he could not kill all these men; sooner or later he must fall. The men made no attempt to engage him. They merely held ready in case he should make a rush.
With the fury of a maddened bull, D'Hérouville engaged the vicomte. He was the vicomte's equal in all save generalship. The vicomte loved, next to madame, the game of fence, and he loved it so thoroughly that his coolness never fell below the level of his superb courage. Physically, there was scarce a hair's difference in the weight of the two men. But a parried stroke, or a nicely balked assault, stirred D'Hérouville's heat; if repeated the blood surged into his head, and he was often like to throw caution to the winds. Once his point scratched the vicomte's jaw.