l was now impossible. But,
suddenly, imitating the Jesuit, the marshal placed his blade also under
his heel, broke it in half, and picking up the pointed end, about
eighteen inches in length tore off his black silk cravat, rolled it round
the broken part so as to form a handle, and said to Father d'Aigrigny:
"Then we will fight with daggers."

Struck with this mixture of coolness and ferocity, the Jesuit exclaimed:
"Is this then a demon of hell?"

"No; it is a father, whose children have been murdered," said the
marshal, in a hollow voice, whilst he fitted the blade to his hand, and a
tear stood in the eye, that instantly after became fierce and ardent.

The Jesuit saw that tear. There was in this mixture of vindictive rage
and paternal grief something so awful, and yet so sacred, that for the
first time in his life Father d'Aigrigny felt fear--cowardly, ignoble
fear--fear for his own safety. While a combat with swords was in
question, in which skill, agility, and experience are such powerful
auxiliaries to courage, his only difficulty had been to repress the ardor
of his hate--but when he thought of the combat proposed, body to body,
face to face, heart to heart, he trembled, grew pale, and exclaimed: "A
butchery with knives?--never!"

His countenance and the accent betrayed his alarm, so that the marshal
himself was struck with it, and fearing to lose his revenge, he cried:
"After all, he is a coward! The wretch had only the courage or the vanity
of a fencer. This pitiful renegade--this traitor to his country--whom I
have cuffed, kicked--yes, kicked, most noble marquis!--shame of your
ancient house--disgrace to the rank of gentleman, old or new--ah! it is
not hypocrisy, it is not calculation, as I at first thought--it is fear!
You need the noise of war, and the eyes of spectators to give you
courage--"

"Sir--have a care!" said Father d'Aigrigny, stammering through his
clenched teeth, for rage and hate now made him forget his fear-"Must I
then spit on you, to make the little blood you have left rise to your
face?" cried the exasperated marshal.

"Oh! this is too much! too much!" said the Jesuit, seizing the pointed
piece of the blade that lay at his feet.

"It is not enough!" said the marshal, panting for breath. "There, Judas!"
and he spat in his face.

"If you will not fight now," added the marshal, "I will beat you like a
dog, base child-murderer!"

On receiving the uttermost insult which can be offered