That day was destined to be an eventful one.  It will be remembered that Lampourde, the professional assassin, had received from Merindol—­acting for the Duke Of Vallombreuse—­a commission to put Captain Fracasse quietly out of the way, and accordingly that worthy was dodging about on the Pont-Neuf, at the hour of sunset, waiting to intercept his intended victim, who would necessarily pass that way in returning to his hotel.  Jacquemin awaited his arrival impatiently, frequently breathing on his fingers and rubbing them vigorously, so that they should not be quite numb with the cold when the moment for action came, and stamping up and down in order to warm his half-frozen feet.  The weather was extremely cold, and the sun had set behind the Pont Rouge, in a heavy mass of blood-red clouds.  Twilight was coming on apace, and already there were only occasional foot-passengers, or vehicles, to be encountered hurrying along the deserted streets.

At last de Sigognac appeared, walking very fast, for a vague anxiety about Isabelle had taken possession of him, and he was in haste to get back to her.  In his hurry and preoccupation he did not notice Lampourde, who suddenly approached and laid hold of his cloak, which he snatched off, with a quick, strong jerk that broke its fastenings.  Without stopping to dispute the cloak with his assailant, whom he mistook at first for an ordinary foot-pad, de Sigognac instantly drew his sword and attacked him.  Lampourde, on his side, was ready for him, and pleased with the baron’s way of handling his weapon, said to himself, though in an audible tone, “Now for a little fun.”  Then began a contest that would have delighted and astonished a connoisseur in fencing—­such swift, lightning-like flashing of the blades, as they gave and parried cut and thrust—­the clashing of the steel, the blue sparks that leaped from the contending swords as the fight grew more furious—­Lampourde keeping up meanwhile an odd running commentary, as his wonder and admiration grew momentarily greater and more enthusiastic, and he had soon reached an exulting mood.  Here at last was a “foeman worthy of his steel,” and he could not resist paying a tribute to the amazing skill that constantly and easily baffled his best efforts, in the shape of such extraordinary and original compliments that de Sigognac was mightily amused thereby.  As usual, he was perfectly cool and self-possessed, keeping control of his temper as well as of his sword—­though by this time he felt sure that it was another agent of the Duke of Vallombreuse’s he had to deal with, and that his life, not his cloak, was the matter at stake.  At last Lampourde, who had begun to entertain an immense respect for his valiant opponent, could restrain his curiosity no longer, and eagerly asked,

“Would it be indiscreet, sir, to inquire who was your instructor?  Girolamo, Paraguante, or Cote d’Acier would have reason to be proud of such a pupil.  Which one of them was it?”