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“Sir, you are wearing the collars I bought recently at ‘The Paradise of the Bachelor.’”

“Sir, I have no wish to speak to you, and I beg you to withdraw.”

“Monsieur, vous aurez de mes nouvelles.”

That was all, but it caused a commotion in Montparnasse. Aristide Dubois’ last words, “Sir, you will hear from me,” signified nothing less than a duel. Yes; Bouzon and Dubois on the field of honour, sword or pistol in hand, with doctors in attendance! “Both of them are terrible men,” related Madame Martin, whose blanchisserie now became a popular place of rendez-vous. “Impossible to reason with them. They will fight to the death.” Equally sought after were the respective concierges of the Dubois and Bouzon families, and the tradespeople who served them.

The discussion spreading, all Montparnasse soon found itself indirectly and chaotically mixed up in the Affair of the Collars. It was Collars in a hundred bourgeois homes, in cafés, in the shady Luxembourg Gardens, even amongst the enormous, apoplectic cochers on the cab-ranks.