"You hear that, Wilkie," said he.
"This will teach you that the time of your compatriot, Lord
Seymour, has passed by. The good-humored race of plebeians who
respectfully submitted to the blows with which noblemen honored
them after drinking, has died out. This ought to cure you of your
unfortunate habit of placing yourself on terms of equality with
all the vagabonds you meet."
Chupin's hair fairly bristled with anger. "What! what!" he
exclaimed; "I'll teach you to call me a vagabond, you scoundrel!"
His gesture, his attitude, and his eyes were so expressive of
defiance and menace that two of the guests sprang up and caught
him by the arm. "Go, go," they said.
But he freed himself from their grasp. "Go!" he replied. "Never!
He called me a vagabond. Am I to pocket the insult quietly and
walk off with it? You can scarcely expect that. First, I demand
an apology."
This was asking too much of the Viscount de Coralth. "Let the
fool alone," he remarked, with affected coolness, "and ring for
the waiters to kick him out."
It did not require this new insult to put Chupin in a furious
passion. "Come on!" he exclaimed. "Ah, ha! Where's the fellow
who'll turn me out? Let him come. I'll teach him a lesson!" And
as he spoke he squared his shoulders, inflated his chest, and
threw the weight of his entire body on his left leg, after the
most approved method of sparring-masters.
"Go, go!" insisted Wilkie's friends.
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