And Cherami, suddenly striking down his adversary's sword, plunged his own into the count's right side.
Monsieur de la Bérinière staggered a moment, then fell.
"Fouchtra! he's got his reckoning!" cried the Auvergnat, while the count's witnesses ran forward to help him and carry him off the field. But, at a sign from Cherami, the tall Piedmontese lifted the wounded man in his arms as if he were a child, and carried him to the elegant equipage, in which a surgeon was waiting, who had come with the gentlemen, but whom they had not thought it necessary to take with them to the field of battle.
"There's one job done!" said the young water-carrier.
The count's seconds could hardly keep up with him. In the end, they seated themselves by the wounded man's side in the carriage, which drove away at a walk.
"The wound can't be dangerous," said Cherami to his seconds, when they were alone; "it's in among the ribs. He will be laid up a fortnight or three weeks, unless I touched some vital part. Ah! they forgot to take away their sword. I will carry it back myself, and that will give me an opportunity to inquire for the count."
"Ah! fouchtra! you're a smart one! how you run on!"
"Now it's all over, ain't we going to have a glass of wine at the nearest wine-shop, to refresh us?"
"My boys, here's a hundred sous for each of you. Go and refresh yourselves all you choose; I am going to take the cab and go home. Do you prefer to ride back?"
"No, no! Riding makes us sick; eh, Piedmontese?"