“There are three courses before you, Mr. Venetian,” said he, “and you can take which you like.  Either countermand this supper, invite me to come to it, or come and measure swords with me now.”

Clairmont, who was attending to the fire, did not give me time to reply, but seized a burning brand and rushed on the officer, who thought it best to escape.  Luckily for him the door of my room was open.  He made such a noise in running downstairs that the waiter came out and caught hold of him, thinking he had stolen something; but Clairmont, who was pursuing him with his firebrand, had him released.

This adventure became town talk directly.  My servant, proud of his exploit and sure of my approval, came to tell me that I need not be afraid of going out, as the officer was only a braggart.  He did not even draw his sword on the waiter who had caught hold of him, though the man only had a knife in his belt.

“At all events,” he added, “I will go out with you.”

I told him that he had done well this time, but that for the future he must not interfere in my affairs.

“Sir,” he replied, “your affairs of this kind are mine too, I shall take care not to go beyond my duty.”

With this speech, which I thought very sensible, though I did not tell him so, he took one of my pistols and saw to the priming, smiling at me significantly.

All good French servants are of the same stamp as Clairmont; they are devoted and intelligent, but they all think themselves cleverer than their masters, which indeed is often the case, and when they are sure of it they become the masters of their masters, tyrannize over them, and give them marks of contempt which the foolish gentlemen endeavour to conceal.  But when the master knows how to make himself respected, the Clairmonts are excellent.

The landlord of my inn sent a report of the affair to the police, and the French officer was banished from the town the same day.  At dinner Colonel Basili asked to hear the story, and said that no one but a French officer would think of attacking a man in his own room in such a foolish manner.  I differed from him.

“The French are brave,” I replied, “but generally they are perfectly polite and have wonderful tact.  Wretchedness and love, joined to a false spirit of courage, makes a fool of a man all the world over.”

At supper the ballet-girl thanked me for ridding her of the poor devil, who (as she said) was always threatening to kill her, and wearied her besides.  Though she was not beautiful, there was something captivating about this girl.  She was graceful, well-mannered, and intelligent, her mouth was well-shaped, and her eyes large and expressive.  I think I should have found her a good bargain, but as I wanted to get away from Pavia, and piqued myself on having been good-natured without ulterior motive, I bade her farewell after supper, with many thanks for her kindness in coming.  My politeness seemed rather to confuse her, but she went away reiterating her gratitude.