“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 etes un lache. Monsieur Pendennis—un lache, entendez-vous?”
“What?” said Pen, starting round on him.
“You understand the meaning of the word and its consequences among men of honour?” the artist said, putting his hand on his hip, and staring at Pen.
“The consequences are, that I will fling you out of window, you impudent scoundrel,” bawled out Mr. Pen; and darting upon the Frenchman, he would very likely have put his threat into execution, for the window was at hand, and the artist by no means a match for the young gentleman—had not Captain Broadfoot and another heavy officer flung themselves between the combatants,—had not the ladies begun to scream,—had not the fiddles stopped, had not the crowd of people come running in that direction,—had not Laura, with a face of great alarm, looked over their heads and asked for Heaven’s sake what was wrong,—had not the opportune Strong made his appearance from the refreshment-room, and found Alcides grinding his teeth and jabbering oaths in his Galleon French, and Pen looking uncommonly wicked, although trying to appear as calm as possible, when the ladies and the crowd came up.
“What has happened?” Strong asked of the chef, in Spanish.
“I am Chevalier de Juillet,” said the other, slapping his breast, “and he has insulted me.”
“What has he said to you?” asked Strong.