“And what did you find to say to each other, my good gentleman,” said the woman, “since he is quite mad?”
“He sold me two casks of wine.”
“And you bought them?”
“Yes.”
“But it is his mania to want to sell wine; he has none.”
“Very good!” cried the bagman. “In the first place, I will go and thank Monsieur Vernier.”
Gaudissart, boiling with rage, went off to the house of the ex-dyer, whom he found in his parlor laughing with the neighbors, to whom he was already telling the story.
“Monsieur,” said the Prince of Bagmen, his eyes glaring with wrath, “you are a sneak and a blackguard; and if you are not the lowest of turnkeys—a class I rank below the convicts—you will give me satisfaction for the insult you have done me by placing me in the power of a man whom you knew to be mad. Do you hear me, Monsieur Vernier, the dyer?”
This was the speech Gaudissart had prepared, as a tragedian prepares his entrance on the stage.
“What next?” retorted Vernier, encouraged by the presence of his neighbors. “Do you think we have not good right to make game of a gentleman who arrives at Vouvray with an air and a flourish, to get our money out of us under pretence of being great men—painters, or verse-mongers—and who thus gratuitously places us on a level with a penniless horde, out at elbows, homeless and roofless? What have we done to deserve it, we who are fathers of families? A rogue, who asks us to subscribe to the Globe, a paper which preaches as the first law of God, if you please, that a man shall not inherit what his father and mother can leave him? On my sacred word of honor, old Margaritis can talk more sense than that.
“And, after all, what have you to complain of? You were quite of a mind, you and he. These gentlemen can bear witness that if you had speechified to all the people in the countryside you would not have been so well understood.”
“That is all very well to say, but I consider myself insulted, monsieur, and I expect satisfaction.”
“Very good, sir; I consider you insulted if that will be any comfort to you, and I will not give you satisfaction, for there is not satisfaction enough in the whole silly business for me to give you any. Is he absurd, I ask you?”
At these words Gaudissart rushed on the dyer to give him a blow; but the Vouvrillons were on the alert, and threw themselves between them, so that Gaudissart the Great only hit the dyer’s wig, which flew off and alighted on the head of Mademoiselle Claire Vernier.
“If you are not satisfied now, monsieur, I shall be at the inn till tomorrow morning; you will find me there, and ready to show you what is meant by satisfaction for an insult. I fought in July, monsieur!”
“Very well,” said the dyer, “you shall fight at Vouvray; and you will stay here rather longer than you bargained for.”
Gaudissart departed, pondering on this reply, which seemed to him ominous of mischief. For the first time in his life he dined cheerlessly.
The whole borough of Vouvray was in a stir over the meeting between Gaudissart and Monsieur Vernier. A duel was a thing unheard of in this benign region.
“Monsieur Mitouflet, I am going to fight Monsieur Vernier tomorrow morning,” said Gaudissart to his host. “I know nobody here; will you be my second?”
“With pleasure,” said Mitouflet.
Gaudissart had hardly finished his dinner when Madame Fontanieu and the Mayor’s deputy came to the Golden Sun, took Mitouflet aside, and represented to him what a sad thing it would be for the whole district if a violent death should occur; they described the frightful state of affairs for good Madame Vernier, and implored him to patch the matter up so as to save the honor of the community.
“I will see to it,” said the innkeeper with a wink.
In the evening Mitouflet went up to Gaudissart’s room carrying pens, ink, and paper.
“What is all that?” asked Gaudissart.
“Well, as you are to fight tomorrow, I thought you might be glad to leave some little instructions, and that you might wish to write some letters, for we all have someone who is dear to us. Oh! that will not kill you. Are you a good fencer? Would you like to practise a little? I have some foils.”
“I should be glad to do so.”
Mitouflet fetched the foils, and two masks.
“Now, let us see.”
The innkeeper and the bagman stood on guard. Mitouflet, who had been an instructor of grenadiers, hit Gaudissart sixty-eight times, driving him back to the wall.
“The devil! you are good at the game!” said Gaudissart, out of breath.
“I am no match for Monsieur Vernier.”
“The deuce! Then I will fight with pistols.”
“I advise you to.—You see, if you use large horse pistols and load them to the muzzle, they are sure to kick and miss, and each man withdraws with unblemished honor. Leave me to arrange it. By the Mass, two good men would be great fools to kill each other for a jest.”
“Are you sure the pistols will fire wide enough? I should be sorry to kill the man,” said Gaudissart.
“Sleep easy.”
Next morning the adversaries, both rather pale, met at the foot of the Pont de la Cise.
The worthy Vernier narrowly missed killing a cow that was grazing by the roadside ten yards off.
“Ah! you fired in the air!” exclaimed Gaudissart, and with these words the enemies fell into each other’s arms.
“Monsieur,” said the traveler, “your joke was a little rough, but it was funny. I am sorry I spoke so strongly, but I was beside myself.—I hold you a man of honor.”
“Monsieur, we will get you twenty subscribers to the children’s paper,” replied the dyer, still rather pale.
“That being the case,” said Gaudissart, “why should we not breakfast together? Men who have fought are always ready to understand each other.”
“Monsieur Mitouflet,” said Gaudissart, as they went in, “there
