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Updated: May 16, 2025
"Monsieur, we take twenty subscriptions to the 'Children's Journal," replied the dyer, still pale. "That being so," said Gaudissart, "why shouldn't we all breakfast together? Men who fight are always the ones to come to a good understanding." "Monsieur Mitouflet," said Gaudissart on his return to the inn, "of course you have got a sheriff's officer here?" "What for?"
For his sins, after getting down at the Soleil d'Or, an inn kept by a former grenadier of the imperial guard named Mitouflet, married to a rich widow, the illustrious traveller, after a brief consultation with the landlord, betook himself to the knave of Vouvray, the jovial merry-maker, the comic man of the neighborhood, compelled by fame and nature to supply the town with merriment.
Gaudissart had scarcely finished his dinner before Madame Fontanieu and the assistant-mayor of Vouvray came to the Soleil d'Or and took Mitouflet aside.
Hein! 'sapristi, two brave men would be arrant fools to kill each other for a joke." "Are you sure the pistols will carry WIDE ENOUGH? I should be sorry to kill the man, after all," said Gaudissart. "Sleep in peace," answered Mitouflet, departing. The next morning the two adversaries, more or less pale, met beside the bridge of La Cise.
In the evening he went up to the traveller's room carrying pens, ink, and paper. "What have you got there?" asked Gaudissart. "If you are going to fight to-morrow," answered Mitouflet, "you had better make some settlement of your affairs; and perhaps you have letters to write, we all have beings who are dear to us. Writing doesn't kill, you know. Are you a good swordsman?
He knows too much for other folks, who can't always understand him." "I can believe it, for he thoroughly comprehends the abstruse principles of finance." "Yes," said the innkeeper, "and for my part, I am sorry he is a lunatic." "A lunatic! What do you mean?" "Well, crazy, cracked, as people are when they are insane," answered Mitouflet. "But he is not dangerous; his wife takes care of him.
Mitouflet was an old soldier, guilelessly crafty, like the peasantry of the Loire; he never laughed at a jest, but took it with the gravity of a man accustomed to the roar of cannon and to make his own jokes under arms. "You have some very strong-minded people here," said Gaudissart, leaning against the door-post and lighting his cigar at Mitouflet's pipe. "How do you mean?" asked Mitouflet.
Hein! 'sapristi, two brave men would be arrant fools to kill each other for a joke." "Are you sure the pistols will carry wide enough? I should be sorry to kill the man, after all," said Gaudissart. "Sleep in peace," answered Mitouflet, departing. The next morning the two adversaries, more or less pale, met beside the bridge of La Cise.
"I mean people who are rough-shod on political and financial ideas." "Whom have you seen? if I may ask without indiscretion," said the landlord innocently, expectorating after the adroit and periodical fashion of smokers. "A fine, energetic fellow named Margaritis." Mitouflet cast two glances in succession at his guest which were expressive of chilling irony. "May be; the good-man knows a deal.
In the evening he went up to the traveller's room carrying pens, ink, and paper. "What have you got there?" asked Gaudissart. "If you are going to fight to-morrow," answered Mitouflet, "you had better make some settlement of your affairs; and perhaps you have letters to write, we all have beings who are dear to us. Writing doesn't kill, you know. Are you a good swordsman?
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