The Jesuit saw that tear.  There was in this mixture of vindictive rage and paternal grief something so awful, and yet so sacred, that for the first time in his life Father d’Aigrigny felt fear—­cowardly, ignoble fear—­fear for his own safety.  While a combat with swords was in question, in which skill, agility, and experience are such powerful auxiliaries to courage, his only difficulty had been to repress the ardor of his hate—­but when he thought of the combat proposed, body to body, face to face, heart to heart, he trembled, grew pale, and exclaimed:  “A butchery with knives?—­never!”

His countenance and the accent betrayed his alarm, so that the marshal himself was struck with it, and fearing to lose his revenge, he cried:  “After all, he is a coward!  The wretch had only the courage or the vanity of a fencer.  This pitiful renegade—­this traitor to his country—­whom I have cuffed, kicked—­yes, kicked, most noble marquis!—­shame of your ancient house—­disgrace to the rank of gentleman, old or new—­ah! it is not hypocrisy, it is not calculation, as I at first thought—­it is fear!  You need the noise of war, and the eyes of spectators to give you courage—­”

“Sir—­have a care!” said Father d’Aigrigny, stammering through his clenched teeth, for rage and hate now made him forget his fear-"Must I then spit on you, to make the little blood you have left rise to your face?” cried the exasperated marshal.

“Oh! this is too much! too much!” said the Jesuit, seizing the pointed piece of the blade that lay at his feet.

“It is not enough!” said the marshal, panting for breath.  “There, Judas!” and he spat in his face.

“If you will not fight now,” added the marshal, “I will beat you like a dog, base child-murderer!”

On receiving the uttermost insult which can be offered to an already insulted man, Father d’Aigrigny lost all his presence of mind, forgot his interests, his resolutions, his fears, forgot even Rodin—­felt only the frenzied ardor of revenge—­and, recovering his courage, rejoiced in the prospect of a close struggle, in which his superior strength promised success over the enfeebled frame of the marshal for, in this kind of brutal and savage combat, physical strength offers an immense advantage.  In an instant, Father d’Aigrigny had rolled his handkerchief round the broken blade, and rushed upon Marshal Simon, who received the shock with intrepidity.  For the short time that this unequal struggle lasted—­unequal, for the marshal had since some days been a prey to a devouring fever, which had undermined his strength—­the two combatants, mute in their fury, uttered not a word or a cry.  Had any one been present at this horrible scene, it would have been impossible for him to tell how they dealt their blows.  He would have seen two heads—­frightful, livid, convulsed—­rising, falling, now here, now there—­arms, now stiff as bars of iron, and now twisting like serpents—­and, in the midst of the undulation of the blue coat of