his heel, he drew the hilt suddenly
towards him, and broke the weapon into two pieces. The duel was no
longer possible. Father d'Aigrigny had put it out of his own power to
yield to a new burst of violence, of which he saw the imminent danger.
Marshal Simon remained for an instant mute and motionless with surprise
and indignation, for he also saw that the duel was now impossible. But,
suddenly, imitating the Jesuit, the marshal placed his blade also
under his heel, broke it in half, and picking up the pointed end, about
eighteen inches in length tore off his black silk cravat, rolled
it round the broken part so as to form a handle, and said to Father
d'Aigrigny: "Then we will fight with daggers."

Struck with this mixture of coolness and ferocity, the Jesuit exclaimed:
"Is this then a demon of hell?"

"No; it is a father, whose children have been murdered," said the
marshal, in a hollow voice, whilst he fitted the blade to his hand, and
a tear stood in the eye, that instantly after became fierce and ardent.

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 i