She departed to put in half an hour's practice at the fencing school, and mademoiselle Lagarde moaned to mademoiselle Tisserand, "It is terrible, is it not? However, we need not make frumps of ourselves, I suppose. I wonder if my toque would be inappropriate?" "Not the least in the world," said mademoiselle Tisserand. "What do you think of my hat with the bird of paradise? She is right as regards our demeanour, though--we must be deadly calm. Let us remember that the dignity of communism is at stake. The brute must not be allowed to guess that we are afraid." A couple of hours later, Pariset, after struggling with a fire that refused to be lit, and breakfasting without any coffee, and dressing his twins with some of their underlinen back in front, gave the concierge a tip to let him leave them in her loge, and went forth to the _Echo_ building, anathematising his ex-domestic with continuous fervour on the way. Arrived there, he found two young women strenuously inquiring for the address of "monsieur Valentin Vance." "You behold him, mesdemoiselles," said Pariset. "What can I have the honour of doing for you?" The young women looked embarrassed. "It is you who are the author of this article, monsieur--this infamous calumny?" queried the plumper of the two. "Oh!" exclaimed Pariset, taken aback. "Oh ... I am speaking to mademoiselle Suzanne Duvivier?" "No, monsieur, I am not mademoiselle Duvivier. Neither of us is mademoiselle Duvivier. But we inquire if you are the monsieur Vance who is the author of this article?" "Well--er--yes, certainly, I am the author of it." The pair conferred a moment in undertones. The one in the toque gave the one with the bird of paradise a slight push. "Then, monsieur, I have the honour to inform you that we are the bearers of a challenge from the lady you have slandered." "A challenge?" stammered Pariset. "What do you say? Is this a joke?" "You will find it very far from a joke," put in mademoiselle Lagarde, strategically; "our principal is a crack shot." "In that case you may be sure I shall not choose pistols," said Pariset with a smile. "Ah!" breathed the girl, dissembling her elation. "You choose swords. No matter." "No," demurred Pariset. "I do not choose swords, either." "But--not swords, either? What, then?" "I choose roses. I am a champion with roses, and I have the right to avail myself of my skill." "Monsieur," cried her companion, peremptorily, "we shall not be patient with pleasantries!" "Nor I with hysteria, mademoiselle. _Comment?_ Do you figure yourself I am going to fight a woman? You must be demented." "You refuse to meet her?" "Point-blank." "On the pretext of convention?" "On the score of manhood." "Your manhood did not restrain you from attacking her." "Was it so bad, the attack?" faltered Pariset, who had not done much more than glance at Jobic's masterpiece.