“I was sitting,” said he, with an air of grave superiority, “immediately in front of the coffee-house, Louis-Quatorze, a little after watch-setting. I was improving my knowledge of my profession by studying the combinations in a game of dominoes. By myself, Adolphe? Yes—right hand against left. Yet not altogether by myself, for I had a bottle of great Bordeaux wine—there is nothing to laugh at, gentlemen—on the table in my front. Flanconnade had just entered, and called for a measure of lemonade, when a street-boy began singing a foolish song about the Regent, with a jingle of ‘Tra-la-la,’ ‘Débonnaire,’ and some rubbish of that kind. Now this poor Flanconnade, you remember, comrades, never was a great admirer of the Regent. He used to say we Musketeers of the Guard owed allegiance, first to the young king, then to the Duc du Maine, lastly to the Marshal de Villeroy, and that we should take our orders only from those three. “So we do! So we should!” interrupted a dozen voices. But Bras-de-Fer, raising a brown, sinewy hand, imposed silence by the gesture, and continued. “Flanconnade, therefore, was displeased at the air of gasconnade with which the urchin sang his song. ‘What! thou, too, art a little breechless roué of the Regent!’ said he, turning round from his drink, and applying a kick that sent the boy howling across the street. There was an outcry directly amongst the cuckold citizens in the coffee-house; half of them, I have no doubt, were grocers and haberdashers in the Regent’s employ. ‘Shame! shame!’ they exclaimed. ‘Down with the bully!’ ‘Long live the Grey Musketeers!’ I was up, and had put on my hat, you may well believe, gentlemen, at the first alarm; but with their expression of good-will to the corps, I sat down again and uncovered. It was simply a personal matter for Flanconnade, and I knew no man better able to extricate himself from such an affair. So, leaving the dominoes, I filled my glass and waited for the result. Our friend looked about him from one to the other, like a man who seeks an antagonist, but the bourgeoisie avoided his glances, all but one young man, wrapped in a cloak, who had seemed at first to take little part in the disturbance. Flanconnade, seeing this, stared him full in the face, and observed, ‘Monsieur made a remark? Did I understand clearly what it was?’ “‘I said _shame_!’ replied the other, boldly. ‘And I repeat, monsieur is in the wrong.’ “By this time the bystanders had gathered round, and I heard whispers of—‘Mind what you do; it’s a Grey Musketeer; fighting is his trade;’ and such friendly warnings; while old Bouchon rushed in with his face as white as his apron, and taking the youth by the arm, exclaimed in trembling accents, ‘Do you know what you’re about, in Heaven’s name? It’s Flanconnade, I tell you. It’s the fencing-master to the company!’