“No, monsieur.”
The train had just left the station.
The officer said:
“I'll cut off your mustache to fill my pipe with.”
And he put out his hand toward the Frenchman's face.
The Englishmen stared at them, retaining their previous impassive
manner.
The German had already pulled out a few hairs, and was still tugging
at the mustache, when M. Dubuis, with a back stroke of his hand, flung
aside the officer's arm, and, seizing him by the collar, threw him down
on the seat. Then, excited to a pitch of fury, his temples swollen and
his eyes glaring, he kept throttling the officer with one hand, while
with the other clenched he began to strike him violent blows in the
face. The Prussian struggled, tried to draw his sword, to clinch with
his adversary, who was on top of him. But M. Dubuis crushed him with his
enormous weight and kept punching him without taking breath or knowing
where his blows fell. Blood flowed down the face of the German, who,
choking and with a rattling in his throat, spat out his broken teeth and
vainly strove to shake off this infuriated man who was killing him.
The Englishmen had got on their feet and came closer in order to see
better. They remained standing, full of mirth and curiosity, ready to
bet for, or against, either combatant.
Suddenly M. Dubuis, exhausted by his violent efforts, rose and resumed
his seat without uttering a word.
The Prussian did not attack him, for the savage assault had terrified
and astonished the officer as well as causing him suffering. When he was
able to breathe freely, he said:
“Unless you give me satisfaction with pistols I will kill you.”