Coignard in this pressing danger.

"Abbe," said M. d'Anquetil, "give me your hand. You're a gallant
man."

"I really cannot help thinking," my good master replied, "that I
have been somewhat murderously inclined; but I am not cruel enough
to be proud of it. I am quite satisfied so long as I am not
reproached too vehemently. Such violence does not lie in my habits,
and as you can see, sir, I am better fitted to lecture from the
chair of a college on belles-lettres than I am to fight with lackeys
at the corner of a street."

"Oh!" replied M. d'Anquetil, "that's not the worst of the whole
business. I fully believe you have knocked the Farmer-general on the
head."

"Is it true?" questioned the abbe.

"As true as that I have perforated with my sword yonder scoundrel's
tripes."

"Under such circumstances we ought to ask pardon of God, to whom
alone we are responsible for the blood shed by us, and secondly to
hasten to the nearest fountain, there to wash ourselves, because I
perceive that my nose is bleeding."

"Right you are, abbe," said M. d'Anquetil; "for the blackguard now
dying in the gutter has cut my forehead. What an impertinence!"