'Ah, my friend, on that night, when we first crossed our swords in the Place de la Grève at Paris, who could foresee to-day, or the gratitude we owe you? How strangely things come to pass in this changing world! And on that night at Paris, you fought in defence of Marie Louise too, when she fled from Raoul d'Ische and me, for we believed her to be but a little grisette, tripping before us in the dark. You remember poor Raoul, and his favourite song,
'Vive le fils d'Harlette!
Normands,
Vive le fils d'Harlette!'
Poor Raoul; he was indeed a gallant spirit! These are my friends, M. Blane; this is M. le Comte Pappenheim—''
'The brave son of a brave father,' said I, bowing; but Pappenheim smiled disdainfully, and played with the shaggy moustache which covered his upper lip—a lip thick and coarse, like that which since the days of the Emperor Maximilian I. has been deemed fashionable, and even royal, in Austria.
'And this is the colonel of my father's petardiers, M. le Comte de Bitche, whom you have had the pleasure of meeting before—'
'And whom I have sworn to run through the heart!' I exclaimed, laying my hand on my sword, and glad to find a legitimate object on which to pour out all my long pent-up wrath and bitterness.
The Count sprang up, and was about to speak with all the fury becoming his character and the occasion; when the Prince exclaimed,
'Silence, gentlemen! The hand that dares to draw a sword in the palace of Lorraine, is forfeited to the public executioner. So be wary, I command you—be wise, and become friends.'
'Never, while I have breath!' said I.
The Count smiled with a provoking expression of contempt, and gnawed his wiry cavalier moustache. Then he reseated himself, and after exchanging sinister glances with Pappenheim, continued restlessly to pluck and stroke his thick black lansquenet beard.