But I am not the son of a shoemaker. Neither are you, Monsieur
D'Hubert. You and I have something that your Bonaparte's princes, dukes,
and marshals have not, because there's no power on earth that could give
it to them," retorted the emigre, with the rising animation of a man who
has got hold of a hopeful argument. "Those people don't exist--all these
Ferauds. Feraud! What is Feraud? A va-nu-pieds disguised into a general
by a Corsican adventurer masquerading as an emperor. There is no earthly
reason for a D'Hubert to s'encanailler by a duel with a person of that
sort. You can make your excuses to him perfectly well. And if the manant
takes into his head to decline them, you may simply refuse to meet him."
"You say I may do that?"
"I do. With the clearest conscience."
"Monsieur le Chevalier! To what do you think you have returned from your
emigration?"
This was said in such a startling tone that the old man raised sharply
his bowed head, glimmering silvery white under the points of the little
tricorne.
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