"Speak up thou, Rivoli," she cried sharply. "Do not stand there like a blanc bec before a Sergeant-Major. Speak, bécasse--or speak not again to me."
The Neapolitan darted a glance of hatred at her.
"Peace, fat sow," he hissed, and added unwisely--"You wag your beard too much."
In that moment vanished for ever all possibility of Madame's trying an Italian husband. "Sow" may be a term of endearment, but no gentleman alludes to beards in the presence of a lady whose chin does not betray her sex.
Turning to his enemy, Rivoli struck an attitude and pointed to the door.
"Go, dig your grave ci-devant," he said portentously, "and I will kill you beside it, within the week."
"Thanks," replied the Englishman, and invited his friends to join him in a litre....
The barracks of the First Battalion of the Foreign Legion hummed and buzzed that night, from end to end, in a ferment of excitement over the two tremendous items of most thrilling and exciting news, to wit, that there was among them a sheep in wolf's clothing--a girl in uniform--and, secondly, that there was a duel toward, a duel in which no less a person than the great Luigi Rivoli was involved.
Cherchez la femme was the game of the evening; and the catch-word of the wits on encountering any bearded and grisled ancien in corridor chambrée, canteen, or staircase, was--
"Art thou the girl, petite?"