"The paper, Mademoiselle," I called again. "Have you got it?"
"Exactly," said my father. "The paper. If the paper were in my pocket, you, my son, would now be in the surgeon's hands. The paper, however, is upstairs in my volume of Rabelais. And now—"
His wrist suddenly stiffened. He made a feint at my throat, and in the same motion lowered his guard. As I came on parade, my sword was wrenched from my grasp. At the same time I stepped past his point, and seized him around the waist.
"You heard, Mademoiselle," I cried. "The door!" and we fell together.
My father uttered something which seemed very near a curse, and clutched at my throat. I loosened my grasp to fend away his hand, and he broke away from my other arm, and sprang to his feet. Just as he did so there was a blow, a splintering of wood. The door was carried off its hinges, and Brutus leapt beside him. The floor had not been clean. My father brushed regretfully at the smudges on his cambric shirt.
"My coat, if you please, Mademoiselle," he said. "I see you have it in your hands. Gad, my son! It was a nearer thing than I expected. On my word, I did not know that Brutus was back."
"He is like you, captain," said Mademoiselle, handing the coat to him.
"You are both stubborn."
For some reason I could not fathom, her good nature had returned. It was relief, perhaps, that made her smile at us.
"It is a family trait," returned my father.
As though kicking down the door had been a simple household duty, Brutus turned from it with quiet passivity, and adjusted the folds of the blue broadcloth with an equal thoroughness, while my father straightened the lace at his wrists.