“Yes,” she said, “but he didn’t make her cry.”

It was in Newman’s own apartment that Valentin dined, having brought his portmanteau, so that he might adjourn directly to the railway.  M. Stanislas Kapp had positively declined to make excuses, and he, on his side, obviously, had none to offer.  Valentin had found out with whom he was dealing.  M. Stanislas Kapp was the son of and heir of a rich brewer of Strasbourg, a youth of a sanguineous—­and sanguinary—­temperament.  He was making ducks and drakes of the paternal brewery, and although he passed in a general way for a good fellow, he had already been observed to be quarrelsome after dinner.  “Que voulez-vous?” said Valentin.  “Brought up on beer, he can’t stand champagne.”  He had chosen pistols.  Valentin, at dinner, had an excellent appetite; he made a point, in view of his long journey, of eating more than usual.  He took the liberty of suggesting to Newman a slight modification in the composition of a certain fish-sauce; he thought it would be worth mentioning to the cook.  But Newman had no thoughts for fish-sauce; he felt thoroughly discontented.  As he sat and watched his amiable and clever companion going through his excellent repast with the delicate deliberation of hereditary epicurism, the folly of so charming a fellow traveling off to expose his agreeable young life for the sake of M. Stanislas and Mademoiselle Noemie struck him with intolerable force.  He had grown fond of Valentin, he felt now how fond; and his sense of helplessness only increased his irritation.

“Well, this sort of thing may be all very well,” he cried at last, “but I declare I don’t see it.  I can’t stop you, perhaps, but at least I can protest.  I do protest, violently.”

“My dear fellow, don’t make a scene,” said Valentin.  “Scenes in these cases are in very bad taste.”

“Your duel itself is a scene,” said Newman; “that’s all it is!  It’s a wretched theatrical affair.  Why don’t you take a band of music with you outright?  It’s d—­d barbarous and it’s d—­d corrupt, both.”

“Oh, I can’t begin, at this time of day, to defend the theory of dueling,” said Valentin.  “It is our custom, and I think it is a good thing.  Quite apart from the goodness of the cause in which a duel may be fought, it has a kind of picturesque charm which in this age of vile prose seems to me greatly to recommend it.  It’s a remnant of a higher-tempered time; one ought to cling to it.  Depend upon it, a duel is never amiss.”

“I don’t know what you mean by a higher-tempered time,” said Newman.  “Because your great-grandfather was an ass, is that any reason why you should be?  For my part I think we had better let our temper take care of itself; it generally seems to me quite high enough; I am not afraid of being too meek.  If your great-grandfather were to make himself unpleasant to me, I think I could manage him yet.”

“My dear friend,” said Valentin, smiling, “you can’t invent anything that will take the place of satisfaction for an insult.  To demand it and to give it are equally excellent arrangements.”