"Mon Dieu!" exclaimed my father gaily. "You surprise me. What! Again?
Damn these chairs!"

A fire of exultation leapt through me. I grinned at my father over the
crossed blades, for I could read something in his face that steadied my
hand. My best attack might leave him unscathed, but I was doing more,
much more, than he had expected. I lunged again, and again he stepped
back, thrusting so quickly that I had barely time to recover.

"Excellent!" said my father. "You are quick, my son. You even have an
eye."

"Mademoiselle!" I called sharply. "The paper! In the breast pocket of his
coat. Take it out and burn it."

"Good God!" exclaimed my father.

"You see," I said, "I have my points."

"My son," he said, parrying the thrust with which I ended my last words,
"pray accept my apologies, and my congratulations. You have a better mind
and a better sword than I could reasonably have expected. Indeed, you
quite make me extend myself. But you must learn to recover more quickly,
Henry, much more quickly. I have seen too many good men go down for just
that failing. It may be well enough against an ordinary swordsman, my
son, or even a moderately good one, but as for me, I could run you
through twice over. Indeed I would, if--"

"The paper, Mademoiselle," I called again. "Have you got it?"