"But he does not wear a sword, messieurs!" cried Andre Louis, aghast.

"That is easily amended. He may have the loan of mine."

"I mean, messieurs," Andre-Louis insisted, between fear for his
friend and indignation, "that it is not his habit to wear a sword,
that he has never worn one, that he is untutored in its uses. He
is a seminarist - a postulant for holy orders, already half a priest,
and so forbidden from such an engagement as you propose."

"All that he should have remembered before he struck a blow," said
M. de Chabrillane, politely.

"The blow was deliberately provoked," raged Andre-Louis. Then he
recovered himself, though the other's haughty stare had no part in
that recovery. "O my God, I talk in vain! How is one to argue
against a purpose formed! Come away, Philippe. Don't you see the
trap... "

M. de Vilmorin cut him short, and flung him off. "Be quiet, Andre.
M. le Marquis is entirely in the right."

"M. le Marquis is in the right?" Andre-Louis let his arms fall
helplessly. This man he loved above all other living men was caught
in the snare of the world's insanity. He was baring his breast to
the knife for the sake of a vague, distorted sense of the honour due
to himself. It was not that he did not see the trap. It was that
his honour compelled him to disdain consideration of it. To
Andre-Louis in that moment he seemed a singularly tragic figure.
Noble, perhaps, but very pitiful.