"The best of the joke was," continued Marcel, with a wink, "that young Mademoiselle Vauban's lover naturally objected to being discarded for another man, and endeavoured to stop the marriage by hook or by crook. Both father and son on their side try to get rid of Mademoiselle's lover, but reckon without their host, and find it a more difficult job than they imagine to get this lover out of the way." This was too much for Payot; what with the wine getting into his head, and the extraordinary resemblance between Marcel's account of the plot and his own dastardly schemes, the financier, feeling his crime being brought home to him, lost all control of himself. "Damn you!" he yelled, "how dare you insult me in this way," and upsetting his chair in his rage he clenched his fist, and rushing at Marcel aimed a tremendous blow at his face. Marcel, although by no means as powerful as his adversary, was as agile as a tiger-cat, and easily parried the blow. "You villain," he cried, "this is a dastardly plot between you, the professor and Villebois to ruin me. Je suis un vieux, but I will show you I have not forgotten how to fight," and seizing Marcel by the throat he attempted to strangle him. Madame Villebois screamed and fainted, and Céleste went to her assistance. "Stop, father, stop, you'll kill him," cried Renée wringing her hand in terror, but Payot lent a deaf ear to her entreaties. Meanwhile Marcel slipped on the polished floor, and the two combatants rolled over on the ground, locked together in a tight embrace. Marcel, with a sudden twist, managed to disentangle himself, and by means of a half-turn, rolled over, and springing up, stepped back flushed and panting, with his collar torn half off. Almost at the same instant Payot got up and made a rush at Marcel who stood on his guard. The financier lunged at him with his left, but the poet ducked under his right arm like a bantam cock, and caught Payot one on the right ear. Before he could recover Marcel was at him again. His blows were feeble compared with Payot's tremendous slogging ones. The latter rushed at him again, but Marcel danced and dodged and ducked, delivering a rain of small but effective blows, like a stream of shots from a three-inch quick-firer replying to the ponderous twelve-inch gun of a dreadnought. Payot drove him against the wall, and seized him by the throat with a deadly grip, which caused Marcel to turn livid, and he struggled to unclasp the financier's hold of his throat. All this happened so quickly, and the guests were so petrified with amazement, that they had had barely time to interfere.