"That proves that you love two at once, that's all! Oh! you can't fool me any more with your wheedling ways. You're a blackguard, a traitor--I know you now. Come, coats off!" "Sans-Cravate, you are not in your right mind at this moment. When you are not so excited, you will listen to me." "No, no, not a word! I've swallowed your insults and been called a coward long enough. It's time to put an end to it." "But you are mistaken; listen to me." "I tell you, I won't; we must fight." "I have told you before that I will not fight with you." "Then I'll find a way to force you to." "Yes, yes," said Jean Ficelle, from behind Sans-Cravate; "when a man entices a friend's mistress away from him, he can't refuse to give him satisfaction." Paul cast a contemptuous glance at Jean Ficelle, and was about to answer him, when Sans-Cravate rushed at him like a madman and shook his fist in his face, crying: "Will you fight?" "No, for you are drunk! I am bound to overlook your foolish behavior." "Oh! that's it, is it?" And Sans-Cravate, utterly beside himself with jealousy, jumped at Paul, and, seizing him around the waist, threw him against the wall of the canal. The young man tried to save himself; but he stumbled and staggered, and, as he fell, his head struck a large paving stone which, unluckily, had been left lying there; its sharp edge made a deep wound, and the blood soon formed a pool about the wounded man. Paul did not utter a sound; but Sans-Cravate, when he saw the blood flowing from the wound, stood as if turned to stone, horror-stricken, and his face became ghastly pale. Jean-Ficelle seized his arm. "Let's be off!" he said; "let's be off! you've given him his dose, and that's all that was needed; now let's cut sticks." "But he is wounded, he's bleeding," muttered Sans-Cravate. "Bah! just a scratch--a trifle; that's none of our business." "No, I won't leave him so; the least I can do is to carry him to that shop yonder, to have his wound dressed." Sans-Cravate stooped over Paul, who, in addition to the wound on his head, had a badly bruised arm. To take off his jacket and turn back his shirt sleeve, to see whether the arm was seriously injured, was the work of an instant; as he bared Paul's forearm, he saw a small, perfectly distinct, blue cross. He was about to carry the wounded man to a shop near by, when Bastringuette came running up; seeing Paul wounded and bathed in blood, she cried: "What an outrage! they have murdered him! poor boy! poor Paul!" And the tall girl, kneeling on the ground, raised the messenger's head and examined it. At that moment, several persons, attracted by her outcry, drew near the wounded man. Once more Jean Ficelle pulled Sans-Cravate by the arm, saying: "Well! they don't need you here, you see; he'll be well taken care of." "That's true; you are right--as she is with him, there's nothing for me to do here. Let's go!"