“Monsieur de Saumaise may withdraw with all honor,” said the vicomte.

“You are very discouraging, Paul,” and Victor stuffed his poem into his doublet.  “Still, what you advance is in the main true.  But every man has a certain trick of his own which he has worked out all by himself, regardless of rules, in defiance of the teachings of the fencing-master.  Perhaps I have one which the vicomte is not familiar with.”

“I hope so,” said the Chevalier.

“Doubtless he has,” added the vicomte.

At four the fencing bouts began between the gentlemen.  There were some exciting contests, but ere half an hour was gone the number had resolved itself into two, Victor and the vicomte.

“Well, Monsieur,” said the latter, pleasantly, “suppose we share the laurels?”

“We shall, with your permission, make the victory more definite,” replied the poet, testing his foil and saluting the ladies above.

“As you please,” and the vicomte stepped into position.

It was a pretty exhibition.  For a long time it seemed that neither Victor nor the vicomte had any advantage.  What Victor lacked in reach and height he made up in agility.  He was as light on his feet as a cat.  In and out he went, round and round; twice his button came within an inch of the vicomte’s breast.  The second round brought no conclusion.  As the foils met in the third bout, the vicomte spoke.

“Now, Monsieur,” he said, but in so low a tone that only Victor heard him, “take care.  You have made a brave showing, and, on my word, you hold a tolerable blade for a poet.  Now then!”

Victor smiled, but a moment later his smile died away, and he drew his lips inward with anxiety.  He felt a new power in the foil slithering up and down his own.  Suddenly a thousand needles stung his wrist:  his foil lay rolling about the deck.  The vicomte bowed jestingly, stepped forward and picked up the foil, presenting it to its owner.  Again they resumed guard.  Quick as light the vicomte’s foil went almost double against the poet’s doublet.  From this time on the poet played warily.  He maintained a splendid defense, so splendid that doubt began to gather in the vicomte’s eyes.  Twice Victor stooped and his foil slid under the vicomte’s guard, touching him roughly on the thigh, But Victor was fighting against the inevitable.  Gradually the vicomte broke down the defense, and again Victor’s foil was wrested from his grasp.  The contest came to an end, with seven points for the vicomte and two for the poet.  The vicomte was loudly applauded, as was due a famous swordsman and a hail-fellow.

[Illustration:  “The Vicomte bowed jestingly.”]

The Chevalier, who had followed each stroke with feverish eyes, sighed with chagrin.  There were three strokes he had taught Victor, and the poet had not used one of them.

“Why did you let those opportunities pass?” he asked, petulantly.