“Good. Take off the handkerchief so we can see each other face to face.”
Quentin felt them remove his bandage, and found himself in a patio before a pale, blond, little man, with a decisive manner, and a calañés hat on his head. The moonlight illuminated the patio; jardinières and flower-pots hung upon the walls; and overhead, in the space between the roofs, gleamed the milky veil of the blue night sky.
“Whom have you brought me?” exclaimed the little man. “This isn’t the sergeant.”
“Well! So it isn’t! We must have made a mistake.”
“You are lucky to have escaped, my friend,” exclaimed the little man, turning to Quentin. “If you had been the sergeant, they would have had to pick you up in pieces.”
“Bah! It wouldn’t be that bad,” said Quentin as he gazed in disgust at the boastful little man.
“Wouldn’t it?”
“Of course not.”
“Do you know to whom you are speaking?”
“No; and the most curious thing about it is that I don’t care. Still, if you want us two to fight it out alone, come with me, and we’ll see if it is your turn to win or to lose.”