strong and supple, and with a sword which seemed a flexible reed from
the point to the middle of the blade, and an inflexible steel from
thence to the guard.

At the very first commencement, Jacques, seeing before him this man of
bronze, whose wrist alone seemed alive, gave some impatient passes,
which merely made Chicot extend his arm, and at every opening left by
the young man, strike him full on the chest. Jacques, red with anger and
emulation as this was repeated, bounded back, and for ten minutes
displayed all the resources of his wonderful agility--he flew like a
tiger, twisted like a serpent, and bounded from right to left; but
Chicot, with his calm air and his long arm, seized his time, and putting
aside his adversary's sword, still sent his own to the same place, while
Borromée grew pale with anger. At last, Jacques rushed a last time on
Chicot, who, parrying his thrust with force, threw the poor fellow off
his equilibrium, and he fell, while Chicot himself remained firm as a
rock.

"You did not tell us you were a pillar," said Borromée, biting his nails
with vexation.

"I, a poor bourgeois!" said Chicot.

"But, monsieur, to manage a sword as you do, you must have practiced
enormously."

"Oh! mon Dieu! yes, monsieur, I have often held the sword, and have
always found one thing."--"What is that?"

"That for him who holds it, pride is a bad counselor and anger a bad