“I spoke of an assassin—yes. But to these my friends.” Andre-Louis’ manner was no less quiet, indeed the quieter of the two, for he was the more experienced actor.
“You spoke loudly enough to be overheard,” said the Marquis, answering the insinuation that he had been eavesdropping.
“Those who wish to overhear frequently contrive to do so.”
“I perceive that it is your aim to be offensive.”
“Oh, but you are mistaken, M. le Marquis. I have no wish to be offensive. But I resent having hands violently laid upon me, especially when they are hands that I cannot consider clean. In the circumstances I can hardly be expected to be polite.”
The elder man’s eyelids flickered. Almost he caught himself admiring Andre-Louis’ bearing. Rather, he feared that his own must suffer by comparison. Because of this, he enraged altogether, and lost control of himself.
“You spoke of me as the assassin of Lagron. I do not affect to misunderstand you. You expounded your views to me once before, and I remember.”
“But what flattery, monsieur!”
“You called me an assassin then, because I used my skill to dispose of a turbulent hot-head who made the world unsafe for me. But how much better are you, M. the fencing-master, when you oppose yourself to men whose skill is as naturally inferior to your own!”
M. de La Tour d’Azyr’s friends looked grave, perturbed. It was really incredible to find this great gentleman so far forgetting himself as to descend to argument with a canaille of a lawyer-swordsman. And what was worse, it was an argument in which he was being made ridiculous.