“I am the master of this academy—the academy of the late Bertrand des Amis, the most flourishing school of arms in Paris to-day.”
M. de Kercadiou’s brows went up.
“And you are master of it?”
“Maitre en fait d’Armes. I succeeded to the academy upon the death of des Amis.”
He left M. Kercadiou to think it over, and went to make his arrangements and effect the necessary changes in his toilet.
“So that is why you have taken to wearing a sword,” said M. de Kercadiou, as they climbed into his waiting carriage.
“That and the need to guard one’s self in these times.”
“And do you mean to tell me that a man who lives by what is after all an honourable profession, a profession mainly supported by the nobility, can at the same time associate himself with these peddling attorneys and low pamphleteers who are spreading dissension and insubordination?”
“You forget that I am a peddling attorney myself, made so by your own wishes, monsieur.”
M. de Kercadiou grunted, and took snuff. “You say the academy flourishes?” he asked presently.