"What's this? do you want to fight me, Sans-Cravate?" he said, glancing at the weapons.
"That surprises you, does it? You thought that I would allow myself to be dishonored and say nothing; that I would be satisfied with your excuses? No, no, I must have something more than that. Come, I am waiting for you, monsieur."
"I am sorry, Sans-Cravate, that I cannot give you the satisfaction you ask; but it is out of the question. A young man in my position doesn't fight duels with a messenger!"
"Then a man of your position is content to be a coward and a blackguard. Then he prefers to be struck and beaten and strangled; and that's what I'll do to you, if you refuse to fight me."
As he spoke, Sans-Cravate, beside himself with rage, sprang at Albert, seized him by the collar, shook him violently, and struck him across the face with the butt of one of his pistols. The young man turned purple, and shouted:
"I will fight you, monsieur; yes, you are right; we must fight."
"Ah! that's very lucky!" said the messenger, relaxing his grasp. "Shall it be right away? I'm in a hurry, you see!"
"One always has some arrangements to make before fighting, monsieur."
"I haven't got any."
"I will be ready in two hours. It isn't nine o'clock yet; at eleven, at the latest, be——"