Barbemouche saw an opportunity to retaliate for the fun that had been made of his pretensions to beauty. "They whom the term fits," he growled, "ought not to complain, if I endure it, who am a gentleman!"
Instantly the bearded giant was on his feet, with his huge sword poised in the air.
"Rascal yourself twice over, and no gentleman!" he cried, quivering with noble wrath.
"What, you lank scarecrow!" said Barbemouche, rising in his turn, and rushing to meet the other.
Their fat comrade now rose and thrust his sword between the two, for the purpose of striking up their weapons. The fop ran behind a tree, to be safe from the fracas.
At the instant when François was about to bring his great sword down on Barbemouche, and the latter was about to puncture him somewhere near the ribs, there came the sound of the Angelus, borne on the breeze from Clochonne. The two antagonists stood as if transformed into statues, their weapons in their respective positions of offence. Each in his way moved his lips in his accustomed prayer until the sound of the distant bell ceased.
"Now, then, for your dirty blood!" roared Barbemouche, instantly resuming animation.
But his fat comrade knocked aside Barbemouche's sword, and at the same time pushed François out of striking distance.
"Gentlemen, gentlemen," cried the fat rascal, reproachfully, "would you spoil this affair and rob me of my share of the pay? God knows we are all gentlemen, and rascals, too!"
"Very well," said Barbemouche, relieved by his brief explosion of wrath, "this matter can wait."