"I trust," said Monsieur Bonticu, in his hollowest death-room voice, "that Monsieur is satisfied. I have my opinion of Monsieur as a sportsman, a gentleman and a Frenchman."
"For my part," returned Monsieur Pantan, with rising passion, "it is impossible for me to consider Monsieur as any of the three."
"What's that you say?" cried Monsieur Bonticu, his big face suddenly flamingly red.
"Monsieur, in addition to the defects in his sense of honor is not also deficient in his sense of hearing," returned the smoldering Pantan.
"Monsieur is insulting."
"That is his hope."
Monsieur Bonticu was aflame with a great, seething wrath, but he had sufficient control of his sense of insult to jerk at the leash of Anastasie and say, in a tone all Montpont could hear:
"Come, Anastasie. I once did Monsieur Pantan the honor of considering him your equal. I must revise my estimate. He is not your sort of pig at all."
Monsieur Pantan's eyes were blazing dangerously, but he retained a slipping grip on his emotions long enough to say:
"Come, Clotilde. Do not demean yourself by breathing the same air as Monsieur and Madame Bonticu."