What he said was so undutiful from a nephew touching his uncle--particularly when that uncle is a prelate--that I refrain from penning it.
We were joined just then by the Chevalier, and together we strolled round to the rose-garden--now, alas! naught but black and naked bushes--and down to the edge of the Loire, yellow and swollen by the recent rains.
"How lovely must be this place in summer," I mused, looking across the water towards Chambord.

"And, Dame," I cried, suddenly changing my meditations, "what an ideal fencing ground is this even turf!" "The swordsman's instinct," laughed Canaples.
And with that our talk shifted to swords, swordsmen, and sword-play, until I suggested to Andrea that he should resume his practice, whereupon the Chevalier offered to set a room at our disposal.
"Nay, if you will pardon me, Monsieur, 't is not a room we want," I answered.

"A room is well enough at the outset, but it is the common error of fencing-masters to continue their tutoring on a wooden floor.
It results from this that when the neophyte handles a real sword, and defends his life upon the turf, the ground has a new feeling; its elasticity or even its slipperiness discomposes him, and sets him at a disadvantage." He agreed with me, whilst Andrea expressed a wish to try the turf.

Foils were brought, and we whiled away best part of an half-hour.

In the end, the Chevalier, who had watched my play intently, offered to try a bout with me.