"He" did not reply. Christophe sent him one of the paragraphs with these words:
"Have you read this?"
The other replied:
"How sorry I am! The writer of it has always been so well disposed towards me! Really, I am very sorry. The best thing is to pay no attention to it."
Christophe laughed and thought: "He is right! The little sneak."
And he decided to forget all about it.
But chance would have it that Georges, who seldom read the papers, and that hastily, except for the sporting articles, should light on the most violent attacks on Christophe. He knew the writer. He went to the café where he knew he would meet him, found him, struck him, fought a duel with him, and gave him a nasty scratch on the shoulder with his rapier. Next day, at breakfast, Christophe had a letter from a friend telling him of the affair. He was overcome. He left his breakfast and hurried to see Georges. Georges himself opened the door. Christophe rushed in like a whirlwind, seized him by the arms, and shook him angrily, and began to overwhelm him with a storm of furious reproaches.
"You little wretch!" he cried. "You have fought a duel for me! Who gave you leave! A boy, a fly-by-night, to meddle in my affairs! Do you think I can't look after myself? What good have you done? You have done this rascal the honor of fighting him. He asked no more. You have made him a hero. Idiot! And if it had chanced … (I am sure you rushed at it like a madman as usual) … if you had been wounded, killed perhaps!… You wretch! I should never have forgiven you as long as you lived!…"
Georges laughed uproariously at this last threat, and was so overcome with merriment, that he cried:
"My dear old friend, how funny you are! Ah! You're unique! Here are you insulting me for having defended you! Next time I shall attack you. Perhaps you'll embrace me then."