The blood mounted to the cheeks of Jacques and animated them with a feverish color.

Borromee gradually dropped all appearance of a monk, and was completely the maitre d'armes: he accompanied each thrust with a counsel or a reproach, but often the vigor and quickness of Jacques triumphed over the skill of his teacher, who was several times touched.
When they paused, Chicot said, "Jacques touched six times and Borromee nine; that is well for the scholar, but not so well for the master." The flash of Borromee's eyes showed Chicot that he was proud.
"Monsieur," replied he, in a tone which he endeavored to render calm, "the exercise of arms is a difficult one, especially for poor monks." "Nevertheless," said Chicot, "the master ought to be at least half as good again as his pupil, and if Jacques were calmer, I am certain he would fence as well as you." "I do not think so," replied Borromee, biting his lips with anger.
"Well! I am sure of it." "M.

Briquet, who is so clever, had better try Jacques himself," replied Borromee, in a bitter tone.
"Oh! I am old." "Yes, but learned." "Ah! you mock," thought Chicot, "but wait." Then he said, "I am certain, however, that Brother Borromee, like a wise master, often let Jacques touch him out of complaisance." "Ah!" cried Jacques, frowning in his turn.
"No," replied Borromee, "I love Jacques, certainly, but I do not spoil him in that manner.

But try yourself, M.Briquet." "Oh, no." "Come, only one pass." "Try," said Gorenflot.
"I will not hurt you, monsieur," said Jacques, "I have a very light hand." "Dear child," murmured Chicot, with a strange glance.

"Well!" said he, "since every one wishes it, I will try," and he rose slowly, and prepared himself with about the agility of a tortoise..