“The bourgeois is outwitted!” said Marillac with a stifled laugh, as soon as he was sure that Bergenheim could not hear him.  “Upon my word, these soldiers have a primitive, baptismal candor!  It is not so with us artists; they could not bamboozle us in this way.  Your strain is an old story; it is taken from the ‘Mariage de raison’, first act, second scene.”

“You will do me the favor to leave me as soon as we reach the woods,” said Gerfaut, as he continued to limp with a grace which would have made Lord Byron envious; “you may go straight ahead, or you may turn to the left, as you choose; the right is forbidden you.”

“Very well.  Hearts are trumps, it seems, and, for the time being, you agree with Sganarelle, who places the heart on the right side.”

“Do not return to the chateau, as it is understood that we are together.  If you rejoin the hunting-party, say to Bergenheim that you left me seated at the foot of a tree and that the pain in my foot had almost entirely gone.  You would have done better not to accompany me, as I tried to make you understand.”

“I had reasons of my own for wishing to get out of Christian’s crowd.  To-day is Monday, and I have an appointment at four o’clock which interests you more than me.  Now, will you listen to a little advice?”

“Listen, yes; follow it, not so sure.”

“O race of lovers!” exclaimed the artist, in a sort of transport, “foolish, absurd, wicked, impious, and sacrilegious kind!”

“What of it?”

“What of it?  I tell you this will all end with swords for two.”

“Bah!”

“Do you know that this rabid Bergenheim, with his round face and good-natured smile, killed three or four men while he was in the service, on account of a game of billiards or some such trivial matter?”

“Requiescat in pace.”

“Take care that he does not cause the ‘De Profundis’ to be sung for you.  He was called the best swords man at Saint-Cyr:  he has the devil of a lunge.  As to pistol-shooting, I have seen him break nine plaster images at Lepage’s one after another.”

“Very well, if I have an engagement with him, we will fight it out with arsenic.”

“By Jove, joking is out of place.  I tell you that he is sure to discover something, and then your business will soon be settled; he will kill you as if you were one of the hares he is hunting this moment.”

“You might find a less humiliating comparison for me,” replied Gerfaut, with an indifferent smile; “however, you exaggerate.  I have always noticed that these bullies with mysterious threats of their own and these slaughterers of plaster images were not such very dangerous fellows to meet.  This is not disputing Bergenheim’s bravery, for I believe it to be solid and genuine.”