Looking more closely, Garnache thought that he recognized in him one of Sanguinetti’s companions of yesternight.
“But do you not see that I am engaged?”
“Ay; and that is my grievance that you should be engaged upon such an affair, and that I should have no share in it. It is to treat me like a lackey, and have the right to feel offended. Enfin! It seems I am not come too late.”
Garnache cut in. He saw the drift of the fellow’s intentions, and he was not minded to submit to fresh delays; already more than half an hour was sped since he had left the Sucking Calf. He put it plainly to them that more than enough delay had there been already and he begged the newcomer to stand aside and allow them to terminate the business on which they were met. But Monsieur Francois—as Sanguinetti had called him—would not hear of it. He proved, indeed, a very testy fellow, and he had, moreover, the support of the others, including even Monsieur Gaubert.
“Let me implore you not to spoil sport, sir,” the latter begged Garnache. “I have a friend at the inn who would never forgive me if I permitted him to miss such a morning’s diversion as this gentleman is willing to afford him. Suffer me to go for him.”
“Look you, sir,” answered Garnache sharply, “however you may view this meeting, it is not with me an affair of jest or sport. I am in a quarrel that has been forced upon me, and—”
“Surely not, sir,” Courthon interrupted sweetly. “You forget that you rolled Monsieur Sanguinetti in the mud. That is hardly to have a quarrel forced upon you.”
Garnache bit his lip to the blood in his vexation.
“However the quarrel may have originated,” said Francois, with a great laugh, “I swear that it goes not forward until I am accommodated, too.”
“You had better accede, monsieur,” murmured Gaubert. “I shall not be gone five minutes, and it will save time in the end.”