"Presently. But what a fine comedy it has been! My faith, it was your poet who had the instinct. Somehow he saw vaguely through the screen, but he could not join the separate parts. It was all droll, my word for it, when I paid you those fifty pistoles that night. But see! those who stand in my path go out of it one by one; De Brissac, D'Hérouville, and now comes your turn. D'Hérouville planned it well; but it is the old story of the monkey and the cat and the chestnuts in the fire. You shall wear a crown of agony, Chevalier. The waiting has been worth while. We shall not kill you; we shall only crucify your heart … by the way of possessing madame."
"Over my body!" The Chevalier cared nothing for these vile insults. He knew the history of his birth; he knew that he was Madame la Marquise's son. He refused to allow these taunts to affect his calm as the vicomte had hoped they would. If he passed through this crisis, he would tell madame the truth. … De Brissac! A blur swept across his eyes, and for a moment his hand shook. De Brissac, De Montbazon! It came to him now, the truth of all this coquetry, this fast and loose, this dangling of promises: the vengeance of a woman's vanity. The irony of this moment, the stinging, bitter irony!
The vicomte never knew how close victory was to him in that moment.
"Monsieur le Comte," said madame, "fight bravely, and God be with you. As for me, be easy; Monsieur le Vicomte will not so much as put a finger on me while I live." She drew a knife from the bosom of her blouse and held it in her hand significantly.
"Half the victory gone already, Vicomte!" cried the Chevalier. Madame had addressed him as "Monsieur le Comte."
"Do not disfigure your beauty, Madame; I desire that," was the vicomte's mocking retort. "Now, my friends, if you all would see la belle France again! But mind; the man who strikes the Chevalier a fatal blow shall by my own hand peg out."
In a twinkling of an eye the bright tongues of steel met, flashed, sparkled, ground upon each other, pressed and beat down. As the full horror of the situation came to her, madame saw the figures reel, and there were strangling sensations in her throat and bubbling noises in her ears. The knife slipped from her fingers. She rocked on her knees, sobbing. The power to pray had gone; she could only watch, watch, watch. Ah God! if he should die before her eyes! Her hands rose from her bosom and pressed against her cheeks. Dimly she could hear the gonk-gonk of flying water-fowl: that murder should be done in so fair a place!
The unequal duel went on. Presently The Fox stepped back, his arm gashed. He cursed and took up his sword with his left hand. They tried to lure the Chevalier from his vantage point; but he took no step, forward or backward. He was like a wall. The old song of battle hummed in his ears. Would that Victor were here. It would be a good fight.
"These Pérignys are living sword blades," murmured the vicomte. "Come, come; this must end."
They were all hardy men, the blood was rich, the eye keen, the wrist sure; but they could not break down the Chevalier's guard. They knew that in time they must wear him out, but time was very precious to the vicomte. The Chevalier's point laid open the rascal's cheek, it ripped open Frémin's forehead, it slid along Pauquet's hand. A cold smile grew upon the Chevalier's lips and remained there. They could not reach him. There was no room for four blades, and soon the vicomte realized this.