“Has M. de Luynes lost anything?” St. Auban inquired icily.
“His wits, mayhap,” quoth Canaples with a contemptuous shrug.
He was a tall, powerfully built man, this Canaples, with a swart, cruel face that was nevertheless not ill-favoured, and a profusion of black hair.
“There is a temerity in M. de Canaples's rejoinder that I had not looked for,” I said banteringly.
Canaples's brow was puckered in a frown.
“Ha! And why not, Monsieur?”
“Why not? Because it is not to be expected that one who fastens quarrels upon schoolboys would evince the courage to beard Gaston de Luynes.”
“Monsieur!” the four of them cried in chorus, so loudly that the hum of voices in the tavern became hushed, and all eyes were turned in our direction.
“M. de Canaples,” I said calmly, “permit me to say that I can find no more fitting expression for the contempt I hold you in than this.”
As I spoke I seized a corner of the tablecloth, and with a sudden tug I swept it, with all it held, on to the floor.