"No, monsieur; no, a man doesn't fight—and with swords, above all—when his wrist is no longer firm; and it seems that Monsieur de la Bérinière's opponent was a great, tall rascal—a professional—one of those fellows who pass their time fighting. A fine profession!"
Cherami pushed the sword still farther under his coat, stared at the concierge as if he would swallow him, and said in a sharp tone:
"Your reflections tire me; I am going up to the count's apartments."
"But, monsieur, you can't go up; monsieur le comte is very badly wounded, so it seems. He is forbidden to read or talk."
"I don't mean to speak to him, but to his valet, who isn't so much of an ass as you, I trust."
And Cherami rapidly ascended the stairs, opened the door of the reception-room by turning the knob, and found there the valet, who knew him. He handed him the sword, saying:
"Here, my friend, is a sword which your master loaned to the person with whom he fought yesterday, and which that person requested me to return to him, and at the same time to inquire as to his condition. Is the count's wound dangerous?"
"No, monsieur. The surgeon said that it wasn't mortal, and that monsieur would recover."
"Ah! so much the better! I am very glad to hear that."
"But it may take a long time; he'll have to be very careful. Monsieur has lost a great deal of blood; he is very weak, and, between ourselves, he's no longer young."