“Monsieur,” cried the little officer, turning purple, “it occurs to me that you are mocking us.”
“Mocking you! Mocking you? Mocking a gentleman who has been tied to so huge a sword as yours. Surely—surely, sir, you do not think—”
“I'll not endure it,” he broke in. “You shall answer to me for this.”
“Have a care, sir,” I cried in alarm as he rushed forward. “Have a care, sir, lest you trip over your sword.”
He halted, drew himself up, and, with a magnificent gesture: “I am Armand de Malpertuis, lieutenant of his Majesty's guards,” he announced, “and I shall be grateful if you will do me the honour of taking a turn with me, outside.”
“I am flattered beyond measure, M. Malappris—”
“Mal-per-tuis,” he corrected furiously.
“Malpertuis,” I echoed. “I am honoured beyond words, but I do not wish to take a turn.”
“Mille diables, sir! Don't you understand? We must fight.”
“Must we, indeed? Again I am honoured; but, Monsieur, I don't fight sparrows.”