“I perceive that it is your aim to be offensive.” “Oh, but you are mistaken, M. le Marquis. I have no wish to be offensive. But I resent having hands violently laid upon me, especially when they are hands that I cannot consider clean. In the circumstances I can hardly be expected to be polite.” The elder man’s eyelids flickered. Almost he caught himself admiring Andre-Louis’ bearing. Rather, he feared that his own must suffer by comparison. Because of this, he enraged altogether, and lost control of himself. “You spoke of me as the assassin of Lagron. I do not affect to misunderstand you. You expounded your views to me once before, and I remember.” “But what flattery, monsieur!” “You called me an assassin then, because I used my skill to dispose of a turbulent hot-head who made the world unsafe for me. But how much better are you, M. the fencing-master, when you oppose yourself to men whose skill is as naturally inferior to your own!” M. de La Tour d’Azyr’s friends looked grave, perturbed. It was really incredible to find this great gentleman so far forgetting himself as to descend to argument with a canaille of a lawyer-swordsman. And what was worse, it was an argument in which he was being made ridiculous. “I oppose myself to them!” said Andre-Louis on a tone of amused protest. “Ah, pardon, M. le Marquis; it is they who chose to oppose themselves to me--and so stupidly. They push me, they slap my face, they tread on my toes, they call me by unpleasant names. What if I am a fencing-master? Must I on that account submit to every manner of ill-treatment from your bad-mannered friends? Perhaps had they found out sooner that I am a fencing-master their manners would have been better. But to blame me for that! What injustice!” “Comedian!” the Marquis contemptuously apostrophized him. “Does it alter the case? Are these men who have opposed you men who live by the sword like yourself?” “On the contrary, M. le Marquis, I have found them men who died by the sword with astonishing ease. I cannot suppose that you desire to add yourself to their number.” “And why, if you please?” La Tour d’Azyr’s face had flamed scarlet before that sneer. “Oh,” Andre-Louis raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips, a man considering. He delivered himself slowly. “Because, monsieur, you prefer the easy victim--the Lagrons and Vilmorins of this world, mere sheep for your butchering. That is why.” And then the Marquis struck him. Andre-Louis stepped back. His eyes gleamed a moment; the next they were smiling up into the face of his tall enemy.