Civil war was raging, high words passing, people pushing and squeezing together in an unseemly manner, round a window in the corner of the ball-room, close by the door through which the Chevalier Strong shouldered his way. Through the opened window, the crowd in the street below was sending up sarcastic remarks, such as "Pitch into him!" "Where are the police?" and the like; and a ring of individuals, among whom Madame Fribsby was conspicuous, was gathered round Monsieur Alcide Mirobolant on the one side; while several gentlemen and ladies surrounded our friend Arthur Pendennis on the other. Strong penetrated into this assembly, elbowing by Madame Fribsby, who was charmed at the chevalier's appearance, and cried, "Save him, save him!" in frantic and pathetic accents.
The cause of the disturbance, it appeared, was the angry little chef of Sir Francis Clavering's culinary establishment. Shortly after Strong had quitted the room, and while Mr. Pen, greatly irate at his downfall in the waltz, which had made him look ridiculous in the eyes of the nation, and by Miss Amory's behavior to him, which had still further insulted his dignity, was endeavoring to get some coolness of body and temper, by looking out of window toward the sea, which was sparkling in the distance, and murmuring in a wonderful calm—while he was really trying to compose himself, and owning to himself, perhaps, that he had acted in a very absurd and peevish manner during the night—he felt a hand upon his shoulder; and, on looking round, beheld, to his utter surprise and horror, that the hand in question belonged to Monsieur Mirobolant, whose eyes were glaring out of his pale face and ringlets at Mr. Pen. To be tapped on the shoulder by a French cook was a piece of familiarity which made the blood of the Pendennises to boil up in the veins of their descendant, and he was astounded, almost more than enraged, at such an indignity.
"You speak French?" Mirobolant said, in his own language, to Pen.
"What is that to you, pray?" said Pen, in English.
"At any rate, you understand it?" continued the other, with a bow.
"Yes, sir," said Pen, with a stamp of his foot; "I understand it pretty well."
"Vous me comprendrez alors, Monsieur Pendennis," replied the other, rolling out his r with Gascon force, "quand je vous dis que vous êtes un lâche. Monsieur Pendennis—un lâche, entendez-vous?"
"What?" said Pen, starting round on him.
"You understand the meaning of the word and its consequences among men of honor?" the artist said, putting his hand on his hip, and staring at Pen.