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Updated: July 20, 2025
The vicomte's stupidity excited the Italian's pity, but he did not allow his feelings to be perceived, and said: "I think we have discussed this Fanfaro long enough. Let us not forget that we are still in the Carnival, and that we must hurry if we still wish to seek some distraction; forget the fatal scene of a short while ago."
Outside his own tent the valet and Henri were sitting in the sun, Gaston on an upturned bucket, cleaning a rifle, and his brother stretched full length on the ground, idly flapping at the flies with the duster with which he had been polishing the Vicomte's riding-boots. Both men were talking rapidly with frequent little bursts of gay laughter. The Persian hound was lying at their feet.
Then he jumped into one of those little low carriages with one horse which were just beginning to supersede the inconvenient cabriolet of our ancestors. He drove in a few minutes to the vicomte's house and begged him to do him the service, with rights of return, of fibbing in case Sabine should question the vicomtesse.
"Your economy does you credit; you have sold me to a drunken corporal for ten pieces of silver." With a swift movement he flung the silver into the vicomte's upturned face. The vicomte covered his face with his hands and sprang to his feet. But no sound escaped him. When he withdrew his hands his lips were bleeding and there were blue ridges on his cheeks and forehead. Confusion.
"That is more sensible," Brother Jacques said smoothly. "In Heaven's name, Paul," cried Victor, "what does this all mean?" "It means, lad, that there are no more masks. That is all. I am sorry, Messieurs, that Monsieur le Vicomte's sword has been broken. Will one of you lend him one?" "I place you both under arrest," declared Du Puys, emphatically.
In and out he went, round and round; twice his button came within an inch of the vicomte's breast. The second round brought no conclusion. As the foils met in the third bout, the vicomte spoke. "Now, Monsieur," he said, but in so low a tone that only Victor heard him, "take care. You have made a brave showing, and, on my word, you hold a tolerable blade for a poet. Now then!"
"A vicomte's title is a recommendation in the eyes of people who still cling to the baubles of nobility, and all women are of this class. There is something, I know not what, delicate and knightly in this title, which suits a youngish bachelor. Duke above all titles is the one that sounds the best. Moliere and Regnard have done great harm to the title of marquis.
There is no doubt that the little Vicomte's sword-play had become more and more wild: that he uncovered himself in the most reckless way, whilst lunging wildly at his opponent's breast, until at last, in one of these mad, unguarded moments, he seemed literally to throw himself upon Deroulede's weapon.
"He grows profane," he said blandly. "Be quiet, Monsieur, or I will break your wrist so badly that you will never be able to handle a sword again." The vicomte in his rage struck out with the other hand, but the young priest was too quick for him. Both the vicomte's wrists were imprisoned as securely as though bauds of iron encircled them. He struggled for a space, then became still.
"How do you know that the soldiers have come for your husband? It may be that they are seeking me and only me. They may know nothing of the Vicomte's defection. Shall you, then, be the one to inform them of it by your unbridled rantings and your accusations?" Her jaw fell open in astonishment. This was a side of the question she had not considered.
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