“You would not say it! — because you would not dare.”

  “But, on the contrary, I repeat that if it were so, I should be proud, honoured, delighted to say it to the whole world, to proclaim it from the house-tops; and after all, I do not know why I should hesitate to say it, since it is true.”

  “What, true! — you dare to say — ”

  “I dare to say the truth.”

  “You dare to say that Antoinette loves you?”

  “I dare to say, that she has, at least, consented to my suit, and that only yesterday — ”

  » Well! only yesterday? “Amaury impatiently interrupted.

  “She gave me permission to ask her hand in marriage from Monsieur d’Avrigny.”

  “It is not true!” cried Amaury. “What! you say it is not true! “Philip replied in amazement; “do you know that you are giving me the lie direct?”

  “Yes! I know it well enough.”

  “And you deliberately call me a liar.” « I do.”

  “You will not retract this insult, which you fling at me without any reason, any provocation?”

  “You may rest assured I shall not.”

  “But Amaury,” replied Philip, becoming more and more excited; “be reasonable; I admit that, in spite of my arguments, I am, perhaps, somewhat to blame, but, between friends, between men of the world, it is not usual to treat each other so summarily.

  “Had you given me the lie direct in Court, it is often done, and I should have said nothing; but here it is a different thing, here it is a wrong, it is an insult which I cannot allow to pass, even from you, and if you persist — ”

  “Yes! I do persist,” cried Amaury, even more vehemently than before, “and will say it again: I you lie, you lie! ‘“

  “I warn you, Amaury,” Philip exclaimed, exasperated in his turn, “that although I am but a lawyer, I can boast of more than a civilian’s courage, and am quite ready to engage in a duel.”

  “Well! you are at full liberty to do so, can you not see that I give you every advantage, since in insulting you I give you the choice of weapons.”

  “The choice of weapons,” said Philip, “is quite immaterial to me; I have no preference, for I have never touched either sword or pistol.”

  “I will bring both,” said Amaury, “your seconds shall choose. And now you have but to appoint the hour.”

  “Seven o’clock in the morning, if agreeable to you.”

  “Your place of meeting?”

  “The Bois de Boulogne.”

  “Which avenue?”

  “The Avenue de la Muette.”

  “Very well; one second on either side, will, I presume, be sufficient; as it is a question of slanders which might injure the reputation of a young girl, it will be advisable to keep the affair as quiet as possible.”

  “What, slanders! you dare to say that I have slandered Antoinette?”

  “I say nothing at all, except that tomorrow morning at seven o’clock I shall be in the Bois de Boulogne, Avenue de la Muette, with my second and weapons.”

  “Until to-morrow, Monsieur Philippe.”

  “Until to-morrow, Monsieur Amaury, — or rather until this evening; for to-day is Thursday, Mlle. Antoinette’s reception day, and I see no reason why I should deprive myself of the pleasure of seeing her.”

  “Then until this evening, when we shall see her; until to-morrow, when we shall see each other,” said Amaury.

  And he went away, both furious and delighted.

  CHAPTER LII.

  ‘“THAT evening was, for Philip, both the happiest and the most painful he had ever spent.

  Antoinette was most charming to him, and to him alone.

  Raoul had not come, and Amaury had, on arrival, seated himself at one of the card tables, and was losing with unusual recklessness.

  Philip remained therefore almost alone beside Antoinette, and Antoinette did not seem to complain — far from it.

  Now and again, Amaury would cast a furtive glance at Antoinette and Philip and seeing them chatting and laughing together, he swore to himself that on the morrow he would not spare his friend.

  As to the latter, he had almost forgotten his impending duel. Joy and remorse were choking him. It was in vain that he felt remorseful at his happiness, his success was none the less apparent, and, after all, he was forced to possess his soul in patience. It is true that when Antoinette smiled upon him, he felt that on the morrow that smile would probably cost him very dear, it is true that at each coquettish glance from his charming neighbour, one of those terrible looks of Amaury we have before mentioned, would dawn on his mental vision, like a flash on the horizon of his memory. He was indeed a worthless fellow to be unfaithful to the memory of the poor dead girl. But at this crisis, remembrances of Madeleine in the past, Amaury’s vengeance in the future, all was little by little swept away in the intoxicating present, and he gave himself up entirely to the sweetness of his conquest.

  He was only recalled to the gravity of his position at the moment of leaving, when Antoinette graciously extended her hand to say farewell. Then it flashed across him that perhaps this was the last time he should ever see her; he felt strangely moved, and as he kissed her soft little hand, he could not restrain a few sad, disconnected words from bursting from him.

  “Mademoiselle, your goodness — so much happiness — Ah! should fate be unkind to me, should I fall to-morrow with your dear name on my lips, will you not grant me — a thought — a smile — a sigh of regret.”

  “What do you mean, M. Philippe?” asked Antoinette, both startled and surprised.

  But Philip contented himself with giving her a last look as he bowed himself out with a tragic air, not wishing to say more, and already reproaching himself for having said too much.

  Antoinette, haunted by one of those presentiments which women often have, then approached Amaury, who, hat in hand, was about to leave.

  “To-morrow is the first of June,” said Antoinette, “you will not forget, Amaury, that Monsieur d’Avrigny will expect to see us.”

  “No, I shall not forget,” said Amaury.

  “Then we shall meet there, as usual, at ten o’clock in the morning.”

  “Yes! at ten o’clock,” said Amaury absently.

  “If I should not be there by twelve o’clock, tell Monsieur d’Avrigny not to expect me, as I shall have been detained in Paris on important business.”

  Amaury said these few words in such cold deliberate tones, that Antoinette, pale and trembling, dared not ask him anything further; but, turning to Monsieur de Mengis, she begged the old gentleman to remain with her a few moments after everyone had left.

  Once left alone with him, she confided to his sympathetic ear the broken words which had escaped Philip, Amaury’s reticence, and her instinctive fears. The Count, taking all this in conjunction with his interview with Amaury on that very morning, could not help feeling some alarm; but he did not allow Antoinette to see this, and even pretended to treat the affair lightly, promising her that on the very next day he would see the two harebrained young men, and hear what they had to say for themselves.

  True to his word, he left home early the next morning, and hastened to call on Amaury; he was told he had just left the house on horseback, leaving no word as to his destination, and only accompanied by his English groom.

  Monsieur de Mengis then drove as quickly as possible to Philip’s rooms.

  The concierge was standing on the door-step in the act of relating to his friend how M. Auvray had left the house an hour earlier, accompanied by his solicitor; at Monsieur de Mengis’ request he readily enough repeated his story, adding, that on this occasion, the solemn solicitor, instead of carrying under his arm a bundle of stamped papers, was provided with a pair of swords and a case of pistols. They had then hailed a cab, and as Auvray threw himself into the ancient vehicle, he had shouted to the driver:

  “Bois de Boulogne — Avenue de 1a Muette.”

  Monsieur de Mengis instantly gave the same order to his man, who at once set his horse at a gallop. Unfortunately it was already after half-past six, and the rendezvous was for seven o’clock.

  CHAPTER LIII.

  PUNCTUALLY at seven o’clock, Philip and his solicitor, whom, as we have already said, he had chosen as his second, reached the pine-wood in the Avenue de la Muette; and almost at the same moment, Amaury dismounted from his horse, and his friend jumped out of a smart cabriolet.

  Philip’s friend was well-versed in affairs of this kind, and therefore it was on his suggestion that they had come provided with swords and pistols, as he maintained that Philip, being the one insulted, had the right to use weapons of his own.

  Albert offered no objection to this; he had received special instructions from Amaury to yield on all points; therefore all preliminaries were soon arranged.

  It was agreed that they were to fight with swords, and that Philip’s weapons were to be used, — these were ordinary military swords.

  All this being settled, Albert drew out his case, politely offered the solicitor a cigar, and on his refusing it, he returned the case to his pocket, lit his cigar and went back to Amaury.

  “Well!” said he, “everything is arranged, you are to fight with swords; I recommend the poor devil to your mercy.”

  Amaury bowed, divested himself of his hat, coat, waistcoat and braces; Philip followed his example. The two swords were then presented to Philip, who took one, in much the same way as he would have taken up his walking stick; the other was handed to Amaury, who received it without affectation, but with an elegant bow.

  Then the two adversaries approached each other, crossed swords at six inches from the point, and the seconds withdrew one to the right, the other to the left, and gave the signal — ” Now, Gentlemen.”

  Philip at once put himself on the defensive with undaunted clumsiness; but was disarmed by Amaury at the first stroke, his sword twisting in the air and striking the ground, ten feet away from the scene of the encounter.

  “Are you really such a formidable adversary, Philip? “Amaury questioned, whilst Philip looked around to see what could have become of his sword.

  “Egad, — I beg your pardon,” replied Philip, “but I warned you how it would be.”

  “Let us fight with pistols, then,” said Amaury, “the chances will, at least, be more even.”

  “Very well,” said Philip, who was indeed agreeable to anything.

  “Look here!” exclaimed Albert, “do you really wish to continue the duel, Amaury?”

  “Ask Philip.”

  Albert, addressing himself exclusively to his opponents, repeated the question.

  “What! do I hold to it!” said Philip, “most certainly I do. I have been grossly insulted, and unless Amaury offers me an apology — ”

  “Oh! well then, go on and kill each other,” said Albert; “I have done what I could to prevent any shedding of blood, and shall now have nothing to reproach myself with.”

  He then beckoned to Amaury’s groom to approach and hold his cigar, whilst he loaded the pistols.

  All this time, Amaury was pacing up and down, switching off with the edge of his sword the tops of buttercups and daisies.

  “Of course, Albert, it is well understood,” said Amaury, suddenly turning round, “that, as this gentleman is the injured party, he will fire first.”

  “Very well,” said Albert; and he concluded his task, whilst Amaury continued his holocaust of buttercups and daisies.

  The preparations completed, the terms of the duel were next arranged; it was agreed that the two opponents should be placed at forty paces from each other. Then both were to take ten paces forward, thus leaving a distance between them of twenty paces.

  Everything being now arranged, two sticks were dug into the ground to mark the starting point, the combatants were placed at the distance agreed upon, the pistols handed to them, and the seconds, having taken their stand one on either side, clapped their hands three times, and at the third time, the opponents stepped towards each other.

  They had not taken four paces in advance before Philip’s pistol went off; Amaury did not move, but Albert’s cigar fell from between his lips and he hastily took off his hat.

  “What is the matter?” asked Philip, uneasy at the direction in which his shot had travelled.

  “The matter is, sir,” said Albert, putting his finger through a hole in his hat, “that if you wished to make a cannon, you did fairly well, but if your aim was a straight hit, you are a deuced awkward shot, damme.”

  “What the devil are you talking about?” exclaimed Amaury, half alarmed, half laughing in spite of himself.

  “I am saying,” said Albert, “that it is my place, not yours, to fire on this gentleman, since it is evidently with me he is fighting a duel. So just hand me over your pistol, that we may make an end of the matter.”

  All eyes were turned on poor Philip, who, covered with confusion, was pouring out such a volume of sincere, and yet most absurd excuses, to Albert, that everyone, seconds and opponents, could not help a hearty fit of laughter.

  Just at this moment, a carriage, approaching from one of the neighbouring avenues, was hastily driven down the Avenue de la Muette, and a man, leaning half out of the window, was heard crying at the top of his voice:

  “Stop! gentlemen, stop!”

  Both Amaury and Philip immediately recognised their friend, the Comte de Mengis.

  Amaury threw down his pistol, and strode towards Albert, who was just then approaching Philip — the poor fellow still held the discharged pistol in his hand.

  “Give this weapon to me,” the solicitor said to him!

  “Plague on you! there is a law against duelling, don’t you know that?” and he snatched the pistol out of Philip’s hand, who was still making profuse apologies to Albert, and did not hear a word of what was said to him.

  “Good Heavens! gentlemen,” said the Comte de Mengis, coming up to them, “you give me a goodish deal of running about. However, I believe that, thank God, I am in time, though I did hear the sound of a pistol-shot.”

  “Ah! yes, my dear Count,” said Philip, “it was I. I know nothing about firearms, and it appears, I placed my finger too soon on the trigger, the pistol went off, and I narrowly escaped killing M. Albert, to whom I sincerely tender my most humble apologies.”

  “What! then your duel is with this gentleman?” asked the Count.

  “No! it is with Amaury; but the shot cannoned to the left: and I do not know how it happened, but although I was facing Amaury, it was this gentleman whom I only just escaped shooting.”

  “Gentlemen,” said the Count, thinking it time to treat the affair with the gravity which it demanded; “Gentlemen, will you be good enough to allow me five minutes talk with Messieurs Auvray and Amaury?”

  The dandy lit another cigar, and the solicitor bowed, and they both retired to a short distance, leaving Amaury, Philip and the Comte de Mengis together.

  “Now, gentlemen,” said Monsieur de Mengis to the two young men, “what does this duel mean? Is this what we had agreed upon, Amaury? Good Heavens! what are you fighting about, and especially with your friend, M. Philippe?”

  “I am fighting a duel with M. Philippe, because M. Philippe is compromising Antoinette.”

  “And you, Philip, what is your reason for fighting with Amaury.”

  “Because he has deeply insulted me.”

  “I insulted you because you were compromising Antoinette, and because Monsieur de Mengis himself informed me — ”

  “Excuse me, M. Philippe,” said the Count, “will you permit me to say two words to Amaury?”

  “Why, as for that, sir — ”

  “Do not go far away, because I shall wish to speak to you afterwards.”

  Philip bowed, and withdrew a short distance, leaving Monsieur de Mengis and Amaury together.

  “Evidently you have misunderstood me, Amaury,” said Monsieur de Mengis; “there was, besides M. Philippe, another person who was compromising Mlle. Antoinette.”

  “Another person? “Amaury exclaimed.

  “Yes! and that other person is yourself. M. Philippe was compromising her by his excursions on foot, and you by your excursions on horseback.”

  “Whatever are you talking about?” cried Amaury; “how could anyone imagine that I was a suitor for Antoinette’s hand?”

  “Others have imagined it very well, sir, — so much so that my nephew looks upon you as the only serious aspirant to the hand of Mademoiselle de Valgenceuse, and retires in your favour, not in that of M. Philippe.”

  “In my favour! sir “ — Amaury replied in stupefaction; “in my favour! — why, how could anyone think — ”

  “Come now! why should you be so astonished?”

  “You say that he retires in my favour?”

  “Yes, unless you can positively declare to me that you were not serious in your attentions to Antoinette.”

  “Sir,” said Amaury controlling himself by a visible effort, “I shall do more than that, you may rest assured. I am a man of quick decision, and by this evening you will know whether I am worthy of the confidence you have reposed in me, and of the advice which, I now understand, you were giving me.”

  And, with a bow to Monsieur de Mengis, Amaury turned as if to go.

  “Come! Amaury,” said Monsieur de Mengis, “are you going away without a word to Philip?”

  “You are right,” said Amaury, “some apology is due to him.”

  “Monsieur Auvray, will you come here a moment,” said the Count.

  “My dear Philip,” said Amaury, “now that you have fired upon me, or rather in my direction, I may tell you that I deeply regret having insulted you.”

  “My friend,” cried Philip, pressing Amaury’s hand, “God knows I had no intention of killing you; in proof of which I shot a hole through your second’s hat, — a piece of awkwardness I am truly sorry for.”

  “So much the better,” said Monsieur de Mengis; “I am glad to hear you speak to each other in this way. Now shake hands, and let bygones be bygones.”