At that time gold was at a low rate, and nobody would take ducats.

After having an excellent dinner with the Princesse de Galitzin, I put on my cloak and went to the cafe.  I found there the burgomaster’s son, who was just beginning a game of billiards.  He whispered to me that I might back him with advantage, and thinking he was sure of his stroke I thanked him and followed his advice.  However, after losing three games one after the other, I took his measure and began to lay against him without his knowledge.  After playing for three hours and losing all the time, he stopped play and came to condole with me on my heavy loss.  It is impossible to describe his amazed expression when I shewed him a handful of ducats, and assured him that I had spent a very profitable evening in laying against him.  Everybody in the room began to laugh at him, but he was the sort of young man who doesn’t understand a joke, and he went out in a rage.  Soon after I left the billiard-room myself, and, according to my promise went to see Therese, as I was leaving for Amsterdam the next day.

Therese was waiting for her young wine merchant, but on my recounting his adventures she expected him no longer.  I took my little daughter on my knee and lavished my caresses on her, and so left them, telling them that we should see each other again in the course of three weeks or a month at latest.

As I was going home in the moonlight by myself, my sword under my arm, I was encountered all of a sudden by the poor dupe of a burgomaster’s son.

“I want to know,” said he, “if your sword has as sharp a point as your tongue.”

I tried to quiet him by speaking common sense, and I kept my sword wrapped in my cloak, though his was bared and directed against me.

“You are wrong to take my jests in such bad part,” said I; “however, I apologize to you.”

“No apologies; look to yourself.”

“Wait till to-morrow, you will be cooler then, but if you still wish it I will give you satisfaction in the midst of the billiard-room.”

“The only satisfaction you can give me is to fight; I want to kill you.”

As evidence of his determination, and to provoke me beyond recall, he struck me with the flat of his sword, the first and last time in my life in which I have received such and insult.  I drew my sword, but still hoping to bring him to his senses I kept strictly on the defensive and endeavoured to make him leave off.  This conduct the Dutchman mistook for fear, and pushed hard on me, lunging in a manner that made me look to myself.  His sword passed through my necktie; a quarter of an inch farther in would have done my business.

I leapt to one side, and, my danger no longer admitting of my fighting on the defensive, I lunged out and wounded him in the chest.  I thought this would have been enough for him, so I proposed we should terminate our engagement.

“I’m not dead yet,” said he; “I want to kill you.”