"Rascal yourself twice over, and no gentleman!" he cried, quivering with
noble wrath.
"What, you lank scarecrow!" said Barbemouche, rising in his turn, and
rushing to meet the other.
Their fat comrade now rose and thrust his sword between the two, for the
purpose of striking up their weapons. The fop ran behind a tree, to be
safe from the fracas.
At the instant when Francois was about to bring his great sword down on
Barbemouche, and the latter was about to puncture him somewhere near the
ribs, there came the sound of the Angelus, borne on the breeze from
Clochonne. The two antagonists stood as if transformed into statues,
their weapons in their respective positions of offence. Each in his way
moved his lips in his accustomed prayer until the sound of the distant
bell ceased.
"Now, then, for your dirty blood!" roared Barbemouche, instantly resuming
animation.
But his fat comrade knocked aside Barbemouche's sword, and at the same
time pushed Francois out of striking distance.
"Gentlemen, gentlemen," cried the fat rascal, reproachfully, "would you
spoil this affair and rob me of my share of the pay? God knows we are all
gentlemen, and rascals, too!"
"Very well," said Barbemouche, relieved by his brief explosion of wrath,
"this matter can wait."
"I can wait as well as another man," said Francois, with dignity,
whereupon both men resumed their seats on the turf and their attentions
to the wine.
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