"Nay--but if, as an artist, I have observed that which leads me to desire a--a memorandum--let us say of the pose and contour of a certain head," replied Müller, recovering his self-possession, "it is not likely that I shall be disposed to part from my memorandum." "How, Monsieur! you refuse?" "I am infinitely sorry, but--" "But you refuse?" "I certainly cannot comply with Monsieur's request." The stranger, for all his bronzing, grew pale with rage. "Do not compel me, Monsieur, to say what I must think of your conduct, if you persist in this determination," he said fiercely. Müller smiled, but made no reply. "You absolutely refuse to yield up the sketch?" "Absolutely." "Then, Monsieur, _c'est une infamie_--_et vous êtes un lâche_!" But the last word had scarcely hissed past his lips before Müller dashed his coffee dregs full in the stranger's face. In one second, the table was upset--blows were exchanged--Müller, pinned against the wall with his adversary's hands upon his throat, was striking out with the desperation of a man whose strength is overmatched--and the whole room was in a tumult. In vain I attempted to fling myself between them. In vain the waiters rushed to and fro, imploring "ces Messieurs" to interpose. In vain a stout man pushed his way through the bystanders, exclaiming angrily:-- "Desist, Messieurs! Desist, in the name of the law! I am the proprietor of this establishment--I forbid this brawling--I will have you both arrested! Messieurs, do you hear?" Suddenly the flush of rage faded out of Müller's face. He gasped--became livid. Lepany, Droz, myself, and one or two others, flew at the stranger and dragged him forcibly back. "Assassin!" I cried, "would you murder him?" He flung us off, as a baited bull flings off a pack of curs. For myself, though I received only a backhanded blow on the chest, I staggered as if I had been struck with a sledgehammer. Müller, half-fainting, dropped into a chair. There was a tramp and clatter at the door--a swaying and parting of the crowd. "Here are the sergents de ville!" cried a trembling waiter. "He attacked me first," gasped Müller. "He has half strangled me." "_Qu'est ce que ça me fait_!" shouted the enraged proprietor. "You are a couple of _canaille_! You have made a scandal in my Café. Sergents, arrest both these gentlemen!" The police--there were two of them, with their big cocked hats on their heads and their long sabres by their sides--pushed through the circle of spectators. The first laid his hand on Müller's shoulder; the second was about to lay his hand on mine, but I drew back. "Which is the other?" said he, looking round. "_Sacredie_!" stammered the proprietor, "he was here--there--not a moment ago!" "_Diable_!" said the sergent de ville, stroking his moustache, and staring fiercely about him. "Did no one see him go?"