The notice written in a big round hand announced that a young man of good address with some knowledge of swordsmanship was required by M. Bertrand des Amis on the second floor.  Above this notice was a black oblong board, and on this a shield, which in vulgar terms may be described as red charged with two swords crossed and four fleurs de lys, one in each angle of the saltire.  Under the shield, in letters of gold, ran the legend: 

Bertranddes Amis

Maitre en fait d’Armes des Academies du Roi

Andre-Louis stood considering.  He could claim, he thought, to possess the qualifications demanded.  He was certainly young and he believed of tolerable address, whilst the fencing-lessons he had received in Nantes had given him at least an elementary knowledge of swordsmanship.  The notice looked as if it had been pinned there some days ago, suggesting that applicants for the post were not very numerous.  In that case perhaps M. Bertrand des Amis would not be too exigent.  And anyway, Andre-Louis had not eaten for four-and-twenty hours, and whilst the employment here offered — the precise nature of which he was yet to ascertain — did not appear to be such as Andre-Louis would deliberately have chosen, he was in no case now to be fastidious.

Then, too, he liked the name of Bertrand des Amis.  It felicitously combined suggestions of chivalry and friendliness.  Also the man’s profession being of a kind that is flavoured with romance it was possible that M. Bertrand des Amis would not ask too many questions.

In the end he climbed to the second floor.  On the landing he paused outside a door, on which was written “Academy of M. Bertrand des Amis.”  He pushed this open, and found himself in a sparsely furnished, untenanted antechamber.  From a room beyond, the door of which was closed, came the stamping of feet, the click and slither of steel upon steel, and dominating these sounds a vibrant sonorous voice speaking a language that was certainly French; but such French as is never heard outside a fencing-school.

“Coulez!  Mais, coulez donc!....  So!  Now the flanconnade — en carte....  And here is the riposte....  Let us begin again.  Come!  The ward of fierce....  Make the coupe, and then the quinte par dessus les armes....  O, mais allongez!  Allongez!  Allez au fond!” the voice cried in expostulation.  “Come, that was better.”  The blades ceased.

“Remember:  the hand in pronation, the elbow not too far out.  That will do for to-day.  On Wednesday we shall see you tirer au mur.  It is more deliberate.  Speed will follow when the mechanism of the movements is more assured.”

Another voice murmured in answer.  The steps moved aside.  The lesson was at an end.  Andre-Louis tapped on the door.

It was opened by a tall, slender, gracefully proportioned man of perhaps forty.  Black silk breeches and stockings ending in light shoes clothed him from the waist down.  Above he was encased to the chin in a closely fitting plastron of leather, His face was aquiline and swarthy, his eyes full and dark, his mouth firm and his clubbed hair was of a lustrous black with here and there a thread of silver showing.