"We begin with the throwing of the discus. Strike up, orchestra, a warlike tune."
The orchestra began the air of Marlboro’, which was the most warlike tune that the blind man knew, and the Auvergnats stepped forward, each holding in his hand a Brie cheese, which represented the discus which he was to throw, and which at a distance looked rather like the ancient quoit. The athletes hurled their cheeses with much skill; the target was below the stoop upon which Férulus stood with solemn face. The three cheeses approached but did not quite reach the point necessary to be declared a winner, and the company standing on the balcony and at the windows, found that that particular sport exhaled an odor which was far from balsamic. But a fourth athlete appeared; he was of a more muscular build than his antagonists; he held in his hand a so-called discus, of formidable size and thickness, and exclaimed with a contemptuous glance at those who had already thrown theirs:
"You fellows couldn’t throw any farther than that! Bah! Sac—f——! See how prettily I’ll put you out of the game!"
"The athlete’s language is decidedly forcible!" said Monsieur Berlingue; and Robineau leaned over and shouted to Férulus:
"Tell them not to talk! Let them content themselves with pantomime."
"Monseigneur," said Férulus, "in all times, gladiators have provoked and stimulated one another by insults; even the knights of old did not spare epithets during the combat."
"Mesdames, that is the language of the knights of old," said Robineau; "you mustn’t let it frighten you."
Meanwhile, the last athlete raised his right hand, on the palm of which rested the discus; he threw his body back, then hurled the discus with all his strength, and the cheese, passing the target, struck Monsieur Férulus full in the face.
All the ladies shrieked aloud, saying:
"Mon Dieu! He is wounded,—killed perhaps! The quoit struck him in the head!"