"If you will accept our services, monsieur," began the Colonel
abruptly, "mine, and my adjutant's, M. de Quettare, we place ourselves
entirely at your disposal."

"I thank you, messieurs," rejoined Deroulede. "The whole thing is a
farce, and that young man is a fool; but I have been in the wrong
and..."

"You would wish to apologise?" queried the Colonel icily.

The worthy soldier had heard something of Deroulede's reputed
bourgeois ancestry. This suggestion of an apology was no doubt in
accordance with the customs of the middle-classes, but the Colonel
literally gasped at the unworthiness of the proceeding. An apology?
Bah! Disgusting! cowardly! beneath the dignity of any gentleman,
however wrong he might be. How could two soldiers of His Majesty's
army identify themselves with such doings?

But Deroulede seemed unconscious of the enormity of his suggestion.

"If I could avoid a conflict," he said, "I would tell the Vicomte
that I had no knowledge of his admiration for the lady we were
discussing and..."

"Are you so very much afraid of getting a sword scratch, monsieur?"
interrupted the Colonel impatiently, whilst M. de Quettare elevated a
pair of aristocratic eyebrows in bewilderment at such an extraordinary
display of bourgeois cowardice.

"You mean, Monsieur le Colonel?"--queried Deroulede.