Péron rose from his chair and suddenly stood towering above the speaker, his face ablaze with passion.
“M. de Bièvre,” he said, “a word with you.”
The nobleman surveyed him from head to foot with a scornful glance, taking in every detail of the musketeer’s plain dress and almost shabby appearance compared with the others there.
“I am M. de Bièvre,” he drawled indifferently; “and what is that to you?”
Péron’s cheek flushed scarlet under the other’s insolent stare.
“I am Jehan de Calvisson,” he said haughtily, “and I heard you but now speak lightly of a young lady in this public place. Monsieur, you will either apologize as publicly, or you will answer for it to me.”
It was evident that de Bièvre and his party were taken by surprise; but the former only sneered.
“And who are you?” he demanded tauntingly!—“a poor knave with whom my late fiancée has doubtless amused herself in her leisure moments—”
He said no more, for Péron had him by the collar, lifting him easily from his chair. Bièvre struggled, but it was too late; Péron had him about the waist now and flung him over the table, and he lay like a log.
His friends sprang up with a great outcry, and the crowded room was in a tumult, but no man laid a finger on Péron. He stood where he had seized his antagonist, his own face deeply flushed and his eyes sparkling with anger.