"I penetrate to his cafe, where he consorts with blacklegs, sharpers, and barmaids, and I gain a private audience of the great man in his exile.
"I snap the fingers in his face. Tonnere! how white it grows! I cry:
"'Monsieur, you are no gentleman—you are un fripon, a rogue, a speaking cur! Monsieur, I spit upon you for a cur! Will you have pistols or sabers?'
"'Calembours, by all the devils!' groans my rat in the trap. 'Why, man, I thought you were dead long ago. If I hadn't thought so, I should have had you to help me through with that accursed plot, and paid you well for it, too——'
"'Liar!' I cry, 'I don't believe you! You are Thoms, and Thoms was a traitor. Allons, monsieur, will you meet me in the court out there?'
"'Calembours,' whines the slave, 'why need you trample on a down man? Nobody knows me here, and I'll give you my purse, my jewels, and a fine blood-horse which I have out there in the stable, if you'll let me escape to Dover to-night.'
"I weigh the purse, not so light, considering; the jewels—par la messe! a million francs would not purchase them.
"But I do not falter; he has cheated me with a paltry trick, he has practiced upon my credulity—my credulity, mademoiselle, and a chevalier d'honneur never forgives that.
"'Dog! you think to buy me!' I screamed, in my high indignation—'you, who have played your vile trick upon me, who have laughed under the hood at me. You, Thoms! Never, Monsieur Mortlake; but I will have your blood! Fox! beast! you shall be honored for the first time in your plebeian life—you shall fight with Calembours!'
"The slave recoils, for he knows the accuracy of the chevalier's aim, he knows the perfection of the chevalier's passes; he loathes pistol and saber as a means of settling the dispute.