Germain ventured on an epigram.
"That was simple; it was the coming of age of a continent."
"A war of liberty against oppression?"
"Rather, gentlemen, a war of human nature against human nature. We had experience of the armies of both sides in our Province."
"Would I had been there with Lafayette!" another Guardsman cried.
"You, d'Estaing!" exclaimed Grancey. "You would cry if an Englishman spoiled your ruffles!"
"Sir, my second shall visit you this evening!"
"Pray, you twin imitations of Modesty-in-Person, let us have a real tragediette in steel and blood," put in d'Amoreau, the fifth Life Guard.
D'Estaing and Grancey, drawing swords, lunged at each other. D'Amoreau and the Count de Bellecour each ran behind one of them and acted as a second, the Chevalier de Blair standing umpire, when the Abbé, the Princess's reader, entered. The blades were thrust, mock respectfully, back into their scabbards, and they all bowed low to the ecclesiastic.
A short, spare man of thirty with a cadaverous face, whose sharp, lustreless black eyes, thin projecting nose, and mouth like a sardonic mere line, combined with a jesuitical downwardness of look, made one feel uneasy—such was the Abbé Jude as he appeared to Germain's brief first glance.