France -- History -- Louis XIII, 1610-1643 -- Fiction
The action followed so quickly upon the words that Isabelle, terrified
at this cruel effrontery, had scarcely time to start to one side, and
so escape his profane touch; but the duke was not one to be easily
balked in anything he particularly desired to do, and pressing nearer
he again extended his hand towards Isabelle’s white neck, and had
almost succeeded in accomplishing his object, when his arm was seized
from behind, and held firmly in a grasp of iron.
Furiously angry, he turned his head to see who had dared to lay hands
upon his sacred person, and perceived that it was the odious Captain
Fracasse.
“My lord duke,” said he calmly, still holding his wrist firmly,
“Mademoiselle is in need of no assistance from you, or any one else, in
this matter.” Then his grasp relaxed and he let go of the duke’s arm.
Vallombreuse, who looked positively hideous at that moment, his face
pale to ghastliness and disfigured by the rage he felt, grasped the
hilt of his sword with the hand released by de Sigognac, and drew it
partly out of its scabbard, as if he meant to attack him, his eyes
flashing fire and every feature working in its frenzy—the baron
meanwhile standing perfectly motionless, quietly awaiting the onset.
But ere he had touched him the duke stopped short; a sudden thought had
extinguished his blazing fury like a douche of cold water; his
self-control returned, his face resumed its wonted expression, the
colour came to his lips, and his eyes showed the most icy disdain, the
most supreme contempt that it could be possible for one human being to
manifest for another. He had remembered just in time that he must not
so greatly demean himself as to cross swords with a person of no birth,
and an actor besides; all his pride revolted at the bare idea of such a
thing. An insult coming from a creature so low in the social scale
could not reach him. Does a gentleman declare war upon the mud that
bespatters him? However, it was not in his character to leave an
offence unpunished, no matter whence it proceeded, and stepping nearer
to de Sigognac he said, “You impertinent scoundrel, I will have every
bone in your body broken for you with cudgels, by my lackeys.”
“You’d better take care what you do, my lord,” answered the baron, in
the most tranquil tone and with the most careless air imaginable,
“you’d much better take care what you do! My bones are not so easily
broken, but cudgels may be. I do not put up with blows anywhere but on
the stage.”
“However insolent you may choose to be, you graceless rascal, you
cannot provoke me to do you so much honour as to attack you myself;
that is too high an ambition for such as you to realize,” said
Vallombreuse, scornfully.
“We will see about that, my lord duke,” de Sigognac replied; “it may
happen that I, having less pride than yourself, will fight you, and
conquer you, with my own hands.”
“I do not dispute with a masker,” said the duke shortly, taking
Vidalinc’s arm as if to depart.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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