'Say—morbleu, M. le Prince—what she pleases. Will you fire?'
'Peste! since you will have it so,' muttered the other, drawing a pistol from his girdle.
'You fear my challenge?'
'Tudieu! Chevalier, I fear nothing!'
The reader may imagine my sensations during this challenge to a trial of skill. I remembered the story Raynold Cheyne and the Chevalier Livingstone had told me, of our Marechal de Logis shooting a man in the boot of the queen's carriage, at the Hotel de Sens; and though my soul seemed to tremble within me, at the sudden prospect of death, true to the spirit of honour and of the age, I held my breath, and while my heart forgot to beat, I resolved to die rather than speak, or disgrace the Countess by uttering a sound.
The Prince cocked and levelled his pistol.
The Chevalier uttered a loud laugh, arrested his arm, and springing forward, unlocked and opened the door of the cabinet, saying,
'Come forth, M. Blane—by Jupiter, how pale you look!'
'Morbleu! but you are a gallant fellow!' exclaimed he (who was styled Prince), with astonishment; 'I knew not that there was any one within.'
'He is brave as Bayard! I knew of it, and did this but to test his courage.'