Finally, Alphonse read the article. Little by little the incensed
gentlemen gave it a hearing, now two words and now three, interrupting
it to rip out long, rasping maledictions, and wag their forefingers at
each other as they strode ferociously about the apartment.
As Alphonse reached the close, and dashed the paper to the floor, the
whole quartet, in terrific unison, cried for the blood of the editor.
But hereupon the General spoke with authority.
"No, Messieurs," he said, buttoning his dressing-gown, savagely, "you
shall not fight him. I forbid it--you shall not!"
"But," cried the three at once, "one of us must fight, and you--you
cannot; if _you_ fight our cause is lost! The candidate must not fight."
"Hah-h! Messieurs," cried the hero, beating his breast and lifting his
eyes, "_grace au ciel_. I have a son. Yes, my beloved friends, a son who
shall call the villain out and make him pay for his impudence with
blood, or eat his words in to-morrow morning's paper. Heaven be thanked
that gave me a son for this occasion! I shall see him at once--as soon
as I can dress.
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