Out of the corner of his eye he caught the stir his words created in that group.  Its members had turned to look at him; but for the moment that was all.  A little more was necessary.  Pacing slowly along between his friends he resumed: 

“But is it not remarkable that the assassin of Lagron should make no move against Lagron’s successor?  Or perhaps it is not remarkable.  Perhaps there are good reasons.  Perhaps the gentleman is prudent.”

He bad passed the group by now, and he left that last sentence of his to trail behind him, and after it sent laughter, insolent and provoking.

He had not long to wait.  Came a quick step behind him, and a hand falling upon his shoulder, spun him violently round.  He was brought face to face with M. de La Tour d’Azyr, whose handsome countenance was calm and composed, but whose eyes reflected something of the sudden blaze of passion stirring in him.  Behind him several members of the group were approaching more slowly.  The others — like Andre-Louis’ two companions — remained at gaze.

“You spoke of me, I think,” said the Marquis quietly.

“I spoke of an assassin — yes.  But to these my friends.”  Andre-Louis’ manner was no less quiet, indeed the quieter of the two, for he was the more experienced actor.

“You spoke loudly enough to be overheard,” said the Marquis, answering the insinuation that he had been eavesdropping.

“Those who wish to overhear frequently contrive to do so.”

“I perceive that it is your aim to be offensive.”

“Oh, but you are mistaken, M. le Marquis.  I have no wish to be offensive.  But I resent having hands violently laid upon me, especially when they are hands that I cannot consider clean, In the circumstances I can hardly be expected to be polite.”

The elder man’s eyelids flickered.  Almost he caught himself admiring Andre-Louis’ bearing.  Rather, he feared that his own must suffer by comparison.  Because of this, he enraged altogether, and lost control of himself.

“You spoke of me as the assassin of Lagron.  I do not affect to misunderstand you.  You expounded your views to me once before, and I remember.”

“But what flattery, monsieur!”

“You called me an assassin then, because I used my skill to dispose of a turbulent hot-head who made the world unsafe for me.  But how much better are you, M. the fencing-master, when you oppose yourself to men whose skill is as naturally inferior to your own!”

M. de La Tour d’Azyr’s friends looked grave, perturbed.  It was really incredible to find this great gentleman so far forgetting himself as to descend to argument with a canaille of a lawyer-swordsman.  And what was worse, it was an argument in which he was being made ridiculous.

“I oppose myself to them!” said Andre-Louis on a tone of amused protest.  “Ah, pardon, M. le Marquis; it is they who chose to oppose themselves to me — and so stupidly.  They push me, they slap my face, they tread on my toes, they call me by unpleasant names.  What if I am a fencing-master?  Must I on that account submit to every manner of ill-treatment from your bad-mannered friends?  Perhaps had they found out sooner that I am a fencing-master their manners would have been better.  But to blame me for that!  What injustice!”