I replied.

"It was at a little inn on the border line of France. Part of the inn
is in the Netherlands and part is in France, and a chalk line drawn
across the floor of the common room shows you, if you wish, when you
are in France and when you are in the Netherlands. One day affairs
took me to this little place. There, sitting and drinking in the
common room, was Jacques Haret, looking not one whit changed in four
years. He was dressed as usual, half shabbily and half splendidly. He
greeted me as if he had led the most blameless life in the world since
I had seen him last. You know, Babache, besides my own indignation at
his shameful breach of hospitality, I had Mademoiselle Capello's
injuries to avenge. So I went up to Jacques Haret and said: 'Rascal,
where is Lisa Embden?'

"'God knows,' says he, 'but what is your interest in Lisa Embden, the
niece of a servant, and little more than a servant herself?'

"'This much,' I replied. 'If I had known what was going on while you
were staying at my house four years ago I would have broken every bone
in your scoundrelly body.'

"'Oho,' said he, 'if that is the way you talk, I suppose you want
satisfaction.'

"I told him I did, but not with the sword. You know, Babache, I have a
faculty of fist fighting from my Scotch ancestor, and I never meant to
degrade my good sword in a contest with a rogue like Jacques Haret.
So, reaching over, I caught him by the collar, and gave him then and
there the hardest beating I could. We fought all over the room, first
in France, then in the Netherlands. Jacques Haret could make but a
poor defense. The life he has led does not equip a man with brawn and
muscle, so I had things my own way with him. When I was through, both
of his eyes were blacked, his nose was as big as my fist, and there
was blood on him. I had not a scratch. He took his injury with that
outward calm which seems the peculiar virtue of a rogue, but he showed
a quiet vindictiveness which amazed me. I have ever found before this
that men who forget benefits easily forget injuries quickly. Jacques
Haret is different, for he forgets all benefits at once, and treasures
up his injuries. I think it was the fist beating that infuriated him.
There are some rags and remnants of a gentleman left hanging to him,
and although he would have forgiven completely any hole I might have
made with my sword in his carcass, he could not stomach the beating
outright. He sat on a chair, wiping t