Understand me rightly: only in appearance.

The Marshal.

And my reputation as a swordsman goes with it into the bargain.

The Painter.

Oh, not at all! You will get up again.

The Marshal (_laughing_).

My friend, I am not sorry that you are still alive. I have become reconciled with you, and I who have dared a great deal in toil and strife, am astonished at the extent of your courage. Very well, what your cunning mind has devised for your escape, I accept. Yet woe to you if this time you do not win! And now to the work!

The Painter.

Come on!... Yet no, by your leave! So that they may believe the incredible about me, I will arrange the thing in naturalistic fashion.

(_He draws his sword_.) Is the door locked? (_He walks to the door at the centre, and points his sword at the keyhole_.) Eyes away! I am going to thrust! (_A scream is uttered in the antechamber_.) And now look out! I am going to mark horrid pools of spilt blood! (_He mixes colours on the palette, and hands the_ Marshal _his sword_.) Hold it, I beg you. (_He smears the sword blade with his brush_.)

The Marshal.

My blood!

The Painter.

Without doubt! _Merci_. (_Takes back his sword_.) Just one tap upon the breast. Yet in case you wish that I spare the waistcoat?

The Marshal.

By no means! That would be too much loss of blood!

The Painter.

Just as you please. (_He moves the easel and table to one side.

Softly_.) And make no mistake, the door will open at the first clash of blades.

The Marshal.

Are you ready?

(The Painter _nods a.s.sent. They fence_.)

The Marshal.

Famous.... Do you know that feint?

The Painter.

It is a good one, is it not?

The Marshal.

Who taught you that?

The Painter.

And this!...

The Marshal.

There you missed the quint.

The Painter.

d.a.m.nation!...

The Marshal.

Ah, that was admirable!

The Painter.

Yet at painting I do better.... Is any one listening?

The Marshal.

They are huddled together in a confused group.

The Painter.

Now, if you please!

The Marshal.

Only be at it!

The Painter.

Be careful of the throne, or you will get a b.u.mp if you fall! (_He lunges at_ The Marshal, _far under the armpit_. The Marshal _falls_.

The Marquises _who are pressing in at the half-open door, draw back in horror_.)

_SEVENTH SCENE_.

THE SAME. THE MARQUIS IN PINK. THE MARQUIS IN PALE BLUE. THE OTHER MARQUISES.

The Painter.

Listen to me, gentlemen! What are you about in there? Stay and bear witness to what you saw.