“How the devil come you here?”

“Evidently by way of M. Ferou’s house,” M. Etienne answered.  Mayenne still stared in thick amazement; after a moment my master added:  “I must in justice say that M. Ferou is not aware that I am using this passage; he is, with madame his wife, supping with the Archbishop of Lyons.”

M. Etienne leaned his shoulder against the wall, smiling pleasantly, and waiting for the duke to make the next move.  Mayenne kept a nonplussed silence.  The situation was indeed somewhat awkward.  He could not come forward without encountering an agile opponent, whose exceeding skill with the sword was probably known to him.  He could not turn tail, had his dignity allowed the course, without exposing himself to be spitted.  He was in the predicament of the goat on the bridge.  Yet was he gaping at us less in fear, I think, than in bewilderment.  This Ferou, as I learned later, was one of his right-hand men, years-long supporter.  Mayenne had as soon expected to meet a lion in the tunnel as to meet a foe.  He cried out again upon us, with an instinctive certainty that a great prince’s question must be answered: 

“How came you here?”

“I don’t ask,” said M. Etienne, “how it happens that M. le Duc is walking through this rat-hole.  Nor do I feel disposed to make any explanation to him.”

“Very well, then,” said Mayenne; “our swords, if you are ready, will make adequate explanation.”

“Now, that is gallant of you,” returned M. Etienne, “as it is evident that the closeness of these walls will inconvenience your Grace more than it will me.”

The walls of the passage were roughly laid.  Mayenne perched his lantern on a projecting stone.

“On guard, sir,” he answered.

The silence was profound.  Mayenne had no companion following him.  He was alone with his sword.  He was not now head of the state, but only a man with a sword, standing opposite another man with a sword.  Nor was he in the pink of form.  Though he gave the effect, from his clear colour and proud bearing, perhaps also from his masterful energy, of tremendous force and strength, his body was in truth but a poor machine, his great corpulence making him clumsy and scant of breath.  He must have known, as he eyed his supple antagonist, what the end would be.  Yet he merely said: 

“On guard, monsieur.”

M. Etienne did not raise his weapon.  I retreated a pace, that I might not be in the way of his jump, should Mayenne spring on him.  M. Etienne said slowly: 

“M. de Mayenne, this encounter was none of my contriving.  Nor have I any wish to cross swords with you.  Family quarrels are to be deprecated.  Since I still intend to become your cousin, I must respectfully beg to be released from the obligation of fighting you.”

A man knowing himself overmatched cannot refuse combat.  He may, even as Mayenne had done, think himself compelled to offer it.  But if he insists on forcing battle with a reluctant adversary, he must be a hothead indeed.  And Mayenne was no hothead.  He stood hesitant, feeling that he was made ridiculous in accepting the clemency and should be still more ridiculous to refuse it.  He half lifted his sword, only to lower it again, till at last his good sense came to his relief in a laugh.