At half-past eight, Balloquet arrived, all out of breath.
"What's up, my dear Rochebrune?" he cried. "You wrote me not to fail you, to drop everything—and here I am! Is there a duel on the carpet, by any chance?"
"Just that! I have a duel on hand for this morning, at ten o'clock, at Porte Maillot. I tell you beforehand, my dear Balloquet, that the affair cannot be adjusted; I struck my opponent at the Opéra last night."
"The devil! it's a serious business, then. What caused the quarrel?"
"It is about a lady, my friend."
"A lady! I understand! that is to say, it's for her lovely eyes."
"If I should tell you her name, I'll be bound that you also would fight for her."
"Oho! do I know her, pray?"
"Madame Dauberny."
"Madame Dauberny! Fichtre! But, tell me, are you in love with her now?"