“If you do not take to your heels at once,” said the artist, becoming purple with rage, “I will cut your face in two.”

“Apples are sometimes cut in two,” said Lambernier, sneeringly advancing his face with an air of bravado.  “My face is not afraid of your whip; you can not frighten me because you are a gentleman and I am a workman!  I snap my fingers at bourgeois like—­”

This time he did not have time to finish his comparison; a blow from the whip cut him in the face and made him reel in spite of himself.

“By heaven!” he exclaimed, in a voice like thunder, “may I lose my name if I do not polish you off well!”

He threw his coat on the grass, spat, in his hands and rubbed them together, assuming the position of an athlete ready for a boxing-bout.

Mademoiselle Gobillot, arose, trembling with fright at this demonstration, and uttered two or three inarticulate cries; but, instead of throwing herself between the combatants in the approved style, she ran away as fast as she could.

Although the weapons of the adversaries were not of a nature to spill blood upon the turf, there was something warlike about their countenances which would have done honor to ancient paladins.  Lambernier squatting upon his legs, according to the rules of pugilism, and with his fists on a level with his shoulders, resembled, somewhat, a cat ready to bound upon its prey.  The artist stood with his body thrown backward, his legs on a tension, his chin buried up to his moustache in the fur collar of his coat, with whip lowered, watching all his adversary’s movements with a steady eye.  When he saw the carpenter advancing toward him, he raised his arm and gave him on the left side a second lash from his whip, so vigorously applied that the workman beat a retreat once more, rubbing his hands and roaring: 

“Thunder!  I’ll finish you—­”

He put his hands in his trousers’ pockets and drew out one of those large iron compasses such as carpenters use, and opened it with a rapid movement.  He then seized it in the centre and was thus armed with a sort of double-pointed stiletto, which he brandished with a threatening gesture.

Marillac, at this sight, drew back a few paces, passed his whip to his left hand and, arming himself with his Corsican poniard, placed himself in a position of defence.

“My friend,” said he, with perfect deliberation, “my needle is shorter than yours, but it pricks better.  If you take one step nearer me, if you raise your hand, I will bleed you like a wild boar.”

Seeing the firm attitude of the artist, whose solid figure seemed to denote rather uncommon vigor, and whose moustache and sparkling eyes gave him a rather formidable aspect at this moment; above all, when he saw the large, sharp blade of the poniard, Lambernier stopped.

“By the gods!” exclaimed Marillac, who saw that his bold looks had produced their effect, “you are a Provencal, and I a Gascon.  You have a quick hand, comrade—­”