“Never mind about that!” he said; “I’m an old soldier, I am, triple sauerkraut! I’m a bully boy who has shown his mettle, I am—in all sorts of ways, do you hear, Monsieur—Cornichon?”
“Ha! ha! very good! very pretty! we are pleased to make puns on my name, are we? Go on! The pomard makes you clever—spirituel.”
“What! the pomard makes me spirituous—spiritueux! What business is it of yours? If I have been drinking pomard, it didn’t belong to you; you haven’t got the like of it in your cellars, you miserable Chonchon—Torchon!”
“Oh! Monsieur de—excuse me if I don’t finish your name; I’m afraid you’re a bit quarrelsome in your cups. Come, let’s not get excited; I helped you out of your wheel-rut, and to reward me, you propose a duel. There! there! let’s be good friends.”
But the more mildness Freluchon displayed, the uglier Croque became, because he thought that the other was afraid of him. He advanced upon the young man, twirling his cane and talking in a tone that seemed to proceed from the depths of his chest.
“I tell you, you’re a shrimp. Yes, I have been drinking pomard—what business is it of yours, ten thousand smoked hams! I have a right to drink at Belleville’s, and you haven’t. I’ll drink as much as I please, and I’ll smash your jaw!”
“Oh! baron, baron, this is disgusting talk! surely you are anxious to return to your rut.”
“What’s that about a rut? I’ll chuck you into it!”
But, as Croque raised his cane over Freluchon’s head, the latter dealt him such a well-directed blow with his fist, that the self-styled baron fell back into the hole from which they had lifted him and lay there for some moments before he recovered his breath.
“Mon Dieu! you have killed him!” cried Chamoureau.