"Devil a bit. I mean the little Parisian, Henri de Lagardere."
"The best swordsman in Paris!" Passepoil cried, enthusiastically.
"The best swordsman in France!" Cocardasse shouted.
Passepoil commented again: "The best swordsman in Europe."
Cocardasse, not to be outdone, put the final touch to the picture: "The best swordsman in the world."
The name of Lagardere seemed to make a marked impression upon the company. Every man seemed to have his contribution to make to the history of the little Parisian.
Faenza was the first to speak.
"I met your Lagardere once," he said, "at a fencing-school in Milan, where half a dozen French gentlemen met half a dozen gentlemen of my nationality in a match to test the merits of the French and Italian methods of fence. This Lagardere of yours was the only one whom I had any difficulty in overcoming."
Cocardasse gave an ironic snort. It was evident that he did not in the least believe the latter part of Faenza’s narrative. Joel de Jurgan took up the thread of reminiscence.
"If your Lagardere be the same as the man I am thinking of," he said, "I came across him a couple of years ago at the fair of Neuilly. We had a passage of arms, and I think I gave him a cut on the head, but it took me some time, I promise you."