As all present looked at the heroic girl, pale, her features drawn, her veil aside, her whip in her hand, standing on the threshold of the door, whence her burning glance grasped the whole scene and comprehended it, each knew from the almost imperceptible motion which crossed the soured and bittered face of Corentin, that the real adversaries had met.

A terrible duel was about to begin.
Noticing the box, now in the hands of Corentin, the countess raised her whip and sprang rapidly towards him.

Striking his hands with so violent a blow that the casket fell to the ground, she seized it, flung it into the middle of the fire, and stood with her back to the chimney in a threatening attitude before either of the agents recovered from their surprise.

The scorn which flamed from her eyes, her pale brow, her disdainful lips, were even more insulting than the haughty action which treated Corentin as though he were a venomous reptile.

Old d'Hauteserre felt himself once more a cavalier; all his blood rushed to his face, and he grieved that he had no sword.