“Seize him,” cried M. de Étienne; “he has injured M. de Bièvre—he is a ruffian!”
But something in Péron’s face and his appearance of great strength kept the eager crowd at bay. In the farther corners they sprang upon the tables and on window-sills to gaze at him and at the unconscious form of the nobleman, but no one attempted to arrest him.
“I am the Marquis de Nançay,” he said in a firm voice, looking about him at the ring of curious faces, “and I threw that man over the table for speaking lightly of a noble lady. Any man who wishes to take his part, let him come on, and I will pitch him after his friend.”
There was silence for a moment and then a sudden burst of applause.
“Bien!” cried Condé, “throw them all, Péron, it reminds me of Choin’s defeat in the tennis court. Pardieu! I will see that you have fair play.”
“And I!” cried M. de Bassompierre loudly, “for yonder fellow was at best a cowardly fop. But for the cardinal you might have settled it on the Place Royale; monsignor has left us no appeal save to our fists.”
“I am Soissons,” said the prince, advancing, “and by St. Denis! it was the cleverest throw that I have seen. There is my hand on it, M. de Nançay.”
“’Twas not so clever as I intended,” Péron replied dryly, “it should have broken his neck.”
Following the lead of the Prince de Condé, M. de Soissons, and M. de Bassompierre, the throng of courtiers were eager to honor the new marquis.
“Monsieur is a famous wrestler,” cried one, edging closer to Péron.