“That is magnanimous, Monsieur,” railingly.

“Were I not bound for a far country I might call you to account.”

“It is possible, then?”

“Braver men than you find it to their benefit to respect this sword of mine.”

“Then you have a sword?”

The vicomte laughed.  It was real laughter, unfeigned.  He was too keen a banterer himself not to appreciate this gift in the poet.  “What a lively lad you are!” he exclaimed.  “But four affronts make a long account for a single night.”

“I am ready now and at all times to close the account.”

“Do you love Paris?” asked the vicomte, adding his mite to the bantering.

“Not so much as I did.”

“Has not Rochelle become suddenly attractive?”

“Rochelle?  I do not say so.”

“Come; confess that the unexpected advent of Madame de Brissac has brought this change about.”

“Were we not discoursing on affronts?”

“Only as a sign of my displeasure.  By September I dare say I shall return to France.  I promise to look you up; and if by that time your manner has not undergone a desirable change I shall take my sword and trim the rude edges of your courtesy.”

“September?  That is a long while to wait.  Why not come to Spain with me?  We could have it out there.  Quebec?  Do you fear Mazarin, then, so much as that?”

“Do you doubt my courage, Monsieur?” asked the vicomte, his eyes cold and brilliant with points of light.

“But September?”

“Come, Monsieur; you are playing the boy.  You will admit that I possess some courage.  ’Twould be a fool’s pastime to measure swords when neither of us is certain that to-morrow will see our heads safe upon our shoulders.  I am not giving you a challenge.  I am simply warning you.”

“Warning?  You are kind.  However, one would think that you are afraid to die.”

“I am.  There is always something which makes life worth the living.  But it is not the fear of dying by the sword.  My courage has never been questioned.  Neither has yours.  But there is some doubt as regards your temper and reason ability.  Brave?  To be sure you are.  At this very moment you would draw against one of the best blades in France were I to permit you.  But when it comes man to man, Monsieur, you have to stand on your toes to look into my eyes.  My arm is three inches longer than yours; my weight is greater.  I have three considerable advantages over you.  I simply do not desire your life; it is necessary neither to my honor nor to my happiness.”

“To desire and to accomplish are two different things, Monsieur.”

“Not to me, Monsieur,” grimly.  “When my desire attacks an obstacle it must give way or result in my death.  I have had many desires and many obstacles, and I am still living.”

“But you may be killed abroad.  That would disappoint me terribly.”