"And you wouldn't be mistaken," said Chaudoreille, in a scarcely audible voice.
"Why, what are you saying?"
"That I'm pursued, or at least I shall be. That the greatest danger threatens me."
"My God! What have you done?"
"I've killed the son of the King of Cochin-China."
"The son of Cochin-China?"
"Why, yes, just now, not more than a few minutes ago, against the Fosses-Jaunes—near the Porte Saint-Denis—but it was in honorable combat, a duel with equal weapons; and Rolande laid him at my feet. Heavens, what a cry he uttered as he fell—it still rings in my ears. I slaughtered him like a bullock."
Marcel listened with his habitual good-humor; however, Chaudoreille's story appeared so extraordinary that he could not refrain from exclaiming,—
"But, truly, can all that be possible?"
"What, by jingo, you question its possibility,—my dear Marcel, it's absolutely true. You know me; you know that I'm a hot-headed fellow, a rake of honor. It's a habit I've formed, and what can you expect. I can't reform myself. But this time, at all events, it was not my fault. I was walking quietly along by the city wall; all of a sudden three men came before me and uttered some jokes which were very much out of place and offended me; I politely asked them to allow me to pass, but they still obstructed my way. I immediately drew my sword, the crowd surrounded us, one of my adversaries put himself on guard. I immediately rushed on him; the combat was terrible. My enemy fought desperately; but soon he fell at my feet, making frightful grimaces, and one of his companions told me I had killed the heir to the throne of Cochin-China."