Lampourde himself did not seem to be in the least disconcerted, and after winking at his friend furtively in a very knowing way, stood unabashed before the duke, with the bright light of the many wax candles shining full upon his face.  There was a red mark across his forehead, where his hat had been pressed down over it, and great drops of sweat stood on it, as if he had been running fast, or exercising violently.  His eyes, of a bluish gray tint, with a sort of metallic lustre in them, were fixed upon those of the haughty young nobleman, with a calm insolence that made Merindol’s blood run cold in his veins; his large nose, whose shadow covered all one side of his face, as the shadow of Mount Etna covers a considerable portion of the island of Sicily, stood out prominently, almost grotesquely, in profile; his mustache, with its long stiff points carefully waxed, which produced exactly the effect of an iron skewer stuck through his upper lip, and the “royal” on his chin curled upward, like a comma turned the wrong way, all contributed to make up a very extraordinary physiognomy, such as caricaturists dote on.  He wore a large scarlet cloak, wrapped closely about his erect, vigorous form, and in one hand, which he extended towards the duke, he held suspended a well filled purse—­a strange and mysterious proceeding which Mirindol could by no means understand.

“Well, you rascal,” said the duke, after staring for a moment in astonishment at this odd-looking specimen, “what does this mean?  Are you offering alms to me, pray, or what? with your purse there held out at arm’s length, apparently for my acceptance.”

“In the first place, my lord duke,” said Lampourde, with perfect sang-froid and gravity, “may it not displease your highness, but I am not a rascal.  My name is Jacquemin Lampourde, and I ply the sword for a living.  My profession is an honourable one.  I have never degraded myself by taking part in trade of any kind, or by manual labour.  Killing is my business, at the risk of my own life and limb—­for I always do my work alone, unaided, armed only with my trusty sword.  Fair play is a jewel, and I would scorn to take a mean advantage of anybody.  I always give warning before I attack a man, and let him have a chance to defend himself—­having a horror of treachery, and cowardly, sneaking ways.  What profession could be more noble than mine, pray?  I am no common, brutal assassin, my lord duke, and I beseech your lordship to take back that offensive epithet, which I could never accept, save in a friendly, joking way—­it outrages too painfully the sensitive delicacy of my amour-propre, my lord!”

“Very well, so be it, Maitre Jacquemin Lampourde, since you desire it,” answered Vallombreuse, very much amused at the oddity of his strange visitor.  “And now have the goodness to explain your business here, with a purse in your hand, that you certainly appear to be steadily offering to me.”

Jacquemin satisfied by this concession to his susceptibility, suddenly jerked his head forward, without bending his body, while he waved the hat that he held slowly to and fro, making, according to his ideas, a salute that was a judicious mingling of the soldier’s and the courtier’s—­which ceremony being concluded, he proceeded as follows with his explanation: