“But you were in the wrong. Why did you say that? are you sure of it?”
“Sure! not at all; but it was your ladies who did nothing but say it over and over again, and worked me up to it; besides, I was full of punch.”
“You should never make statements that you’re not sure of; isn’t that so, Monsieur de Belleville?”
Chamoureau scratched his nose, trying to think of a reply; but stout Luminot exclaimed:
“Enough of this! Sacrebleu! Monsieur Remplumé, you can’t refuse to be my second in an affair in which your wife urged me on to the quarrel, with the other ladies.”
“Monsieur, if my wife urged you on, I will be—hum! hum!—your second; I will put some licorice in my pocket—When do you fight?”
“That is for you two to arrange with this Monsieur Edmond’s seconds.—After all, I’d rather fight with him than with the fellow who grabbed me and tossed me in the air. Ah! the rascal! what muscle! what a biceps!”
“That was Freluchon—formerly my intimate friend, in the time of Eléonore, my first wife.”
“I congratulate you!—Go now, messieurs, and settle upon the place and hour of the combat.”
“I say! I hope it won’t be to-day!” cried Chamoureau; “what do you say to a week from Sunday?”