The Duel By Joseph Conrad

It’s a Military Tale

Napoleon I., whose career had the quality of a duel against the whole
of Europe, disliked dueling between the officers of his army. The great
military emperor was not a swashbuckler, and had little respect for

Nevertheless, a story of dueling, which became a legend in the army,
runs through the epic of imperial wars. To the surprise and admiration
of their fellows, two officers, like insane artists trying to gild
refined gold or paint the lily, pursued a private contest through the
years of universal carnage. They were officers of cavalry, and their
connection with the high-spirited but fanciful animal which carries men
into battle seems particularly appropriate. It would be difficult to
imagine for heroes of this legend two officers of infantry of the line,
for example, whose fantasy is tamed by much walking exercise, and whose
valour necessarily must be of a more plodding kind. As to gunners or
engineers, whose heads are kept cool on a diet of mathematics, it is
simply unthinkable.

The names of the two officers were Feraud and D’Hubert, and they were
both lieutenants in a regiment of hussars, but not in the same regiment.

Feraud was doing regimental work, but Lieut. D’Hubert had the good
fortune to be attached to the person of the general commanding the
division, as officier d’ordonnance. It was in Strasbourg, and in this
agreeable and important garrison they were enjoying greatly a short
interval of peace. They were enjoying it, though both intensely warlike,
because it was a sword-sharpening, firelock-cleaning peace, dear to a
military heart and undamaging to military prestige, inasmuch that no one
believed in its sincerity or duration.

Under those historical circumstances, so favourable to the proper
appreciation of military leisure, Lieut. D’Hubert, one fine afternoon,
made his way along a quiet street of a cheerful suburb towards Lieut.
Feraud’s quarters, which were in a private house with a garden at the
back, belonging to an old maiden lady.

His knock at the door was answered instantly by a young maid in Alsatian
costume. Her fresh complexion and her long eyelashes, lowered demurely
at the sight of the tall officer, caused Lieut. D’Hubert, who was
accessible to esthetic impressions, to relax the cold, severe gravity of
his face. At the same time he observed that the girl had over her arm a
pair of hussar’s breeches, blue with a red stripe.

“Lieut. Feraud in?” he inquired, benevolently.

“Oh, no, sir! He went out at six this morning.”

The pretty maid tried to close the door. Lieut. D’Hubert, opposing this
move with gentle firmness, stepped into the ante-room, jingling his

“Come, my dear! You don’t mean to say he has not been home since six
o’clock this morning?”

Saying these words, Lieut. D’Hubert opened without ceremony the door
of a room so comfortably and neatly ordered that only from internal
evidence in the shape of boots, uniforms, and military accoutrements did
he acquire the conviction that it was Lieut. Feraud’s room. And he saw
also that Lieut. Feraud was not at home. The truthful maid had followed
him, and raised her candid eyes to his face.

“H’m!” said Lieut. D’Hubert, greatly disappointed, for he had already
visited all the haunts where a lieutenant of hussars could be found of a
fine afternoon. “So he’s out? And do you happen to know, my dear, why he
went out at six this morning?”

“No,” she answered, readily. “He came home late last night, and snored.
I heard him when I got up at five. Then he dressed himself in his oldest
uniform and went out. Service, I suppose.”

“Service? Not a bit of it!” cried Lieut. D’Hubert. “Learn, my angel,
that he went out thus early to fight a duel with a civilian.”

She heard this news without a quiver of her dark eyelashes. It was
very obvious that the actions of Lieut. Feraud were generally above
criticism. She only looked up for a moment in mute surprise, and Lieut.
D’Hubert concluded from this absence of emotion that she must have seen
Lieut. Feraud since the morning. He looked around the room.

“Come!” he insisted, with confidential familiarity. “He’s perhaps
somewhere in the house now?”

She shook her head.

“So much the worse for him!” continued Lieut. D’Hubert, in a tone of
anxious conviction. “But he has been home this morning.”

This time the pretty maid nodded slightly.

“He has!” cried Lieut. D’Hubert. “And went out again? What for? Couldn’t
he keep quietly indoors! What a lunatic! My dear girl–”

Lieut. D’Hubert’s natural kindness of disposition and strong sense of
comradeship helped his powers of observation. He changed his tone to a
most insinuating softness, and, gazing at the hussar’s breeches hanging
over the arm of the girl, he appealed to the interest she took in Lieut.
Feraud’s comfort and happiness. He was pressing and persuasive. He used
his eyes, which were kind and fine, with excellent effect. His anxiety
to get hold at once of Lieut. Feraud, for Lieut. Feraud’s own good,
seemed so genuine that at last it overcame the girl’s unwillingness to
speak. Unluckily she had not much to tell. Lieut. Feraud had returned
home shortly before ten, had walked straight into his room, and had
thrown himself on his bed to resume his slumbers. She had heard him
snore rather louder than before far into the afternoon. Then he got up,
put on his best uniform, and went out. That was all she knew.

She raised her eyes, and Lieut. D’Hubert stared into them incredulously.

“It’s incredible. Gone parading the town in his best uniform! My dear
child, don’t you know he ran that civilian through this morning? Clean
through, as you spit a hare.”

The pretty maid heard the gruesome intelligence without any signs of
distress. But she pressed her lips together thoughtfully.

“He isn’t parading the town,” she remarked in a low tone. “Far from it.”

“The civilian’s family is making an awful row,” continued Lieut.
D’Hubert, pursuing his train of thought. “And the general is very angry.
It’s one of the best families in the town. Feraud ought to have kept
close at least–”

“What will the general do to him?” inquired the girl, anxiously.

“He won’t have his head cut off, to be sure,” grumbled Lieut. D’Hubert.
“His conduct is positively indecent. He’s making no end of trouble for
himself by this sort of bravado.”

“But he isn’t parading the town,” the maid insisted in a shy murmur.

“Why, yes! Now I think of it, I haven’t seen him anywhere about. What on
earth has he done with himself?”

“He’s gone to pay a call,” suggested the maid, after a moment of

Lieut. D’Hubert started.

“A call! Do you mean a call on a lady? The cheek of the man! And how do
you know this, my dear?”

Without concealing her woman’s scorn for the denseness of the masculine
mind, the pretty maid reminded him that Lieut. Feraud had arrayed
himself in his best uniform before going out. He had also put on his
newest dolman, she added, in a tone as if this conversation were getting
on her nerves, and turned away brusquely.

Lieut. D’Hubert, without questioning the accuracy of the deduction, did
not see that it advanced him much on his official quest. For his quest
after Lieut. Feraud had an official character. He did not know any of
the women this fellow, who had run a man through in the morning, was
likely to visit in the afternoon. The two young men knew each other but
slightly. He bit his gloved finger in perplexity.

“Call!” he exclaimed. “Call on the devil!”

The girl, with her back to him, and folding the hussars breeches on a
chair, protested with a vexed little laugh:

“Oh, dear, no! On Madame de Lionne.”

Lieut. D’Hubert whistled softly. Madame de Lionne was the wife of a high
official who had a well-known salon and some pretensions to sensibility
and elegance. The husband was a civilian, and old; but the society of
the salon was young and military. Lieut. D’Hubert had whistled, not
because the idea of pursuing Lieut. Feraud into that very salon was
disagreeable to him, but because, having arrived in Strasbourg only
lately, he had not had the time as yet to get an introduction to
Madame de Lionne. And what was that swashbuckler Feraud doing there, he
wondered. He did not seem the sort of man who–

“Are you certain of what you say?” asked Lieut. D’Hubert.

The girl was perfectly certain. Without turning round to look at him,
she explained that the coachman of their next door neighbours knew the
maitre-d’hotel of Madame de Lionne. In this way she had her information.
And she was perfectly certain. In giving this assurance she sighed.
Lieut. Feraud called there nearly every afternoon, she added.

“Ah, bah!” exclaimed D’Hubert, ironically. His opinion of Madame de
Lionne went down several degrees. Lieut. Feraud did not seem to him
specially worthy of attention on the part of a woman with a reputation
for sensibility and elegance. But there was no saying. At bottom they
were all alike–very practical rather than idealistic. Lieut. D’Hubert,
however, did not allow his mind to dwell on these considerations.

“By thunder!” he reflected aloud. “The general goes there sometimes. If
he happens to find the fellow making eyes at the lady there will be the
devil to pay! Our general is not a very accommodating person, I can tell

“Go quickly, then! Don’t stand here now I’ve told you where he is!”
cried the girl, colouring to the eyes.

“Thanks, my dear! I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

After manifesting his gratitude in an aggressive way, which at first was
repulsed violently, and then submitted to with a sudden and still more
repellent indifference, Lieut. D’Hubert took his departure.

He clanked and jingled along the streets with a martial swagger. To
run a comrade to earth in a drawing-room where he was not known did
not trouble him in the least. A uniform is a passport. His position as
officier d’ordonnance of the general added to his assurance. Moreover,
now that he knew where to find Lieut. Feraud, he had no option. It was a
service matter.

Madame de Lionne’s house had an excellent appearance. A man in livery,
opening the door of a large drawing-room with a waxed floor, shouted his
name and stood aside to let him pass. It was a reception day. The ladies
wore big hats surcharged with a profusion of feathers; their bodies
sheathed in clinging white gowns, from the armpits to the tips of the
low satin shoes, looked sylph-like and cool in a great display of bare
necks and arms. The men who talked with them, on the contrary, were
arrayed heavily in multi-coloured garments with collars up to their ears
and thick sashes round their waists. Lieut. D’Hubert made his unabashed
way across the room and, bowing low before a sylph-like form reclining
on a couch, offered his apologies for this intrusion, which nothing
could excuse but the extreme urgency of the service order he had to
communicate to his comrade Feraud. He proposed to himself to return
presently in a more regular manner and beg forgiveness for interrupting
the interesting conversation . . .

A bare arm was extended towards him with gracious nonchalance even
before he had finished speaking. He pressed the hand respectfully to his
lips, and made the mental remark that it was bony. Madame de Lionne was
a blonde, with too fine a skin and a long face.

“C’est ca!” she said, with an ethereal smile, disclosing a set of large
teeth. “Come this evening to plead for your forgiveness.”

“I will not fail, madame.”

Meantime, Lieut. Feraud, splendid in his new dolman and the extremely
polished boots of his calling, sat on a chair within a foot of the
couch, one hand resting on his thigh, the other twirling his moustache
to a point. At a significant glance from D’Hubert he rose without
alacrity, and followed him into the recess of a window.

“What is it you want with me?” he asked, with astonishing indifference.
Lieut. D’Hubert could not imagine that in the innocence of his heart and
simplicity of his conscience Lieut. Feraud took a view of his duel in
which neither remorse nor yet a rational apprehension of consequences
had any place. Though he had no clear recollection how the quarrel had
originated (it was begun in an establishment where beer and wine are
drunk late at night), he had not the slightest doubt of being himself
the outraged party. He had had two experienced friends for his seconds.
Everything had been done according to the rules governing that sort of
adventures. And a duel is obviously fought for the purpose of someone
being at least hurt, if not killed outright. The civilian got hurt.
That also was in order. Lieut. Feraud was perfectly tranquil; but Lieut.
D’Hubert took it for affectation, and spoke with a certain vivacity.

“I am directed by the general to give you the order to go at once to
your quarters, and remain there under close arrest.”

It was now the turn of Lieut. Feraud to be astonished. “What the devil
are you telling me there?” he murmured, faintly, and fell into such
profound wonder that he could only follow mechanically the motions of
Lieut. D’Hubert. The two officers, one tall, with an interesting face
and a moustache the colour of ripe corn, the other, short and sturdy,
with a hooked nose and a thick crop of black curly hair, approached the
mistress of the house to take their leave. Madame de Lionne, a woman
of eclectic taste, smiled upon these armed young men with impartial
sensibility and an equal share of interest. Madame de Lionne took her
delight in the infinite variety of the human species. All the other eyes
in the drawing-room followed the departing officers; and when they had
gone out one or two men, who had already heard of the duel, imparted the
information to the sylph-like ladies, who received it with faint shrieks
of humane concern.

Meantime, the two hussars walked side by side, Lieut. Feraud trying to
master the hidden reason of things which in this instance eluded the
grasp of his intellect, Lieut. D’Hubert feeling annoyed at the part he
had to play, because the general’s instructions were that he should see
personally that Lieut. Feraud carried out his orders to the letter, and
at once.

“The chief seems to know this animal,” he thought, eyeing his companion,
whose round face, the round eyes, and even the twisted-up jet black
little moustache seemed animated by a mental exasperation against the
incomprehensible. And aloud he observed rather reproachfully, “The
general is in a devilish fury with you!”

Lieut. Feraud stopped short on the edge of the pavement, and cried in
accents of unmistakable sincerity, “What on earth for?” The innocence of
the fiery Gascon soul was depicted in the manner in which he seized his
head in both hands as if to prevent it bursting with perplexity.

“For the duel,” said Lieut. D’Hubert, curtly. He was annoyed greatly by
this sort of perverse fooling.

“The duel! The . . .”

Lieut. Feraud passed from one paroxysm of astonishment into another.
He dropped his hands and walked on slowly, trying to reconcile this
information with the state of his own feelings. It was impossible. He
burst out indignantly, “Was I to let that sauerkraut-eating civilian
wipe his boots on the uniform of the 7th Hussars?”

Lieut. D’Hubert could not remain altogether unmoved by that simple
sentiment. This little fellow was a lunatic, he thought to himself, but
there was something in what he said.

“Of course, I don’t know how far you were justified,” he began,
soothingly. “And the general himself may not be exactly informed. Those
people have been deafening him with their lamentations.”

“Ah! the general is not exactly informed,” mumbled Lieut. Feraud,
walking faster and faster as his choler at the injustice of his fate
began to rise. “He is not exactly . . . And he orders me under close
arrest, with God knows what afterwards!”

“Don’t excite yourself like this,” remonstrated the other. “Your
adversary’s people are very influential, you know, and it looks bad
enough on the face of it. The general had to take notice of their
complaint at once. I don’t think he means to be over-severe with you.
It’s the best thing for you to be kept out of sight for a while.”

“I am very much obliged to the general,” muttered Lieut. Feraud through
his teeth. “And perhaps you would say I ought to be grateful to you,
too, for the trouble you have taken to hunt me up in the drawing-room of
a lady who–”

“Frankly,” interrupted Lieut. D’Hubert, with an innocent laugh, “I think
you ought to be. I had no end of trouble to find out where you were.
It wasn’t exactly the place for you to disport yourself in under the
circumstances. If the general had caught you there making eyes at the
goddess of the temple . . . oh, my word! . . . He hates to be bothered
with complaints against his officers, you know. And it looked uncommonly
like sheer bravado.”

The two officers had arrived now at the street door of Lieut. Feraud’s
lodgings. The latter turned towards his companion. “Lieut. D’Hubert,” he
said, “I have something to say to you, which can’t be said very well in
the street. You can’t refuse to come up.”

The pretty maid had opened the door. Lieut. Feraud brushed past her
brusquely, and she raised her scared and questioning eyes to Lieut.
D’Hubert, who could do nothing but shrug his shoulders slightly as he
followed with marked reluctance.

In his room Lieut. Feraud unhooked the clasp, flung his new dolman on
the bed, and, folding his arms across his chest, turned to the other

“Do you imagine I am a man to submit tamely to injustice?” he inquired,
in a boisterous voice.

“Oh, do be reasonable!” remonstrated Lieut. D’Hubert.

“I am reasonable! I am perfectly reasonable!” retorted the other
with ominous restraint. “I can’t call the general to account for his
behaviour, but you are going to answer me for yours.”

“I can’t listen to this nonsense,” murmured Lieut. D’Hubert, making a
slightly contemptuous grimace.

“You call this nonsense? It seems to me a perfectly plain statement.
Unless you don’t understand French.”

“What on earth do you mean?”

“I mean,” screamed suddenly Lieut. Feraud, “to cut off your ears to
teach you to disturb me with the general’s orders when I am talking to a

A profound silence followed this mad declaration; and through the open
window Lieut. D’Hubert heard the little birds singing sanely in the
garden. He said, preserving his calm, “Why! If you take that tone,
of course I shall hold myself at your disposition whenever you are at
liberty to attend to this affair; but I don’t think you will cut my ears

“I am going to attend to it at once,” declared Lieut. Feraud, with
extreme truculence. “If you are thinking of displaying your airs and
graces to-night in Madame de Lionne’s salon you are very much mistaken.”

“Really!” said Lieut. D’Hubert, who was beginning to feel irritated,
“you are an impracticable sort of fellow. The general’s orders to
me were to put you under arrest, not to carve you into small pieces.
Good-morning!” And turning his back on the little Gascon, who, always
sober in his potations, was as though born intoxicated with the sunshine
of his vine-ripening country, the Northman, who could drink hard on
occasion, but was born sober under the watery skies of Picardy, made for
the door. Hearing, however, the unmistakable sound behind his back of a
sword drawn from the scabbard, he had no option but to stop.

“Devil take this mad Southerner!” he thought, spinning round and
surveying with composure the warlike posture of Lieut. Feraud, with a
bare sword in his hand.

“At once!–at once!” stuttered Feraud, beside himself.

“You had my answer,” said the other, keeping his temper very well.

At first he had been only vexed, and somewhat amused; but now his face
got clouded. He was asking himself seriously how he could manage to
get away. It was impossible to run from a man with a sword, and as
to fighting him, it seemed completely out of the question. He waited
awhile, then said exactly what was in his heart.

“Drop this! I won’t fight with you. I won’t be made ridiculous.”

“Ah, you won’t?” hissed the Gascon. “I suppose you prefer to be made
infamous. Do you hear what I say? . . . Infamous! Infamous! Infamous!”
he shrieked, rising and falling on his toes and getting very red in the

Lieut. D’Hubert, on the contrary, became very pale at the sound of the
unsavoury word for a moment, then flushed pink to the roots of his
fair hair. “But you can’t go out to fight; you are under arrest, you
lunatic!” he objected, with angry scorn.

“There’s the garden: it’s big enough to lay out your long carcass in,”
spluttered the other with such ardour that somehow the anger of the
cooler man subsided.

“This is perfectly absurd,” he said, glad enough to think he had found a
way out of it for the moment. “We shall never get any of our comrades to
serve as seconds. It’s preposterous.”

“Seconds! Damn the seconds! We don’t want any seconds. Don’t you worry
about any seconds. I shall send word to your friends to come and bury
you when I am done. And if you want any witnesses, I’ll send word to the
old girl to put her head out of a window at the back. Stay! There’s the
gardener. He’ll do. He’s as deaf as a post, but he has two eyes in his
head. Come along! I will teach you, my staff officer, that the carrying
about of a general’s orders is not always child’s play.”

While thus discoursing he had unbuckled his empty scabbard. He sent it
flying under the bed, and, lowering the point of the sword, brushed past
the perplexed Lieut. D’Hubert, exclaiming, “Follow me!” Directly he had
flung open the door a faint shriek was heard and the pretty maid, who
had been listening at the keyhole, staggered away, putting the backs
of her hands over her eyes. Feraud did not seem to see her, but she ran
after him and seized his left arm. He shook her off, and then she rushed
towards Lieut. D’Hubert and clawed at the sleeve of his uniform.

“Wretched man!” she sobbed. “Is this what you wanted to find him for?”

“Let me go,” entreated Lieut. D’Hubert, trying to disengage
himself gently. “It’s like being in a madhouse,” he protested, with
exasperation. “Do let me go! I won’t do him any harm.”

A fiendish laugh from Lieut. Feraud commented that assurance. “Come
along!” he shouted, with a stamp of his foot.

And Lieut. D’Hubert did follow. He could do nothing else. Yet in
vindication of his sanity it must be recorded that as he passed through
the ante-room the notion of opening the street door and bolting out
presented itself to this brave youth, only of course to be instantly
dismissed, for he felt sure that the other would pursue him without
shame or compunction. And the prospect of an officer of hussars being
chased along the street by another officer of hussars with a naked sword
could not be for a moment entertained. Therefore he followed into the
garden. Behind them the girl tottered out, too. With ashy lips and wild,
scared eyes, she surrendered herself to a dreadful curiosity. She had
also the notion of rushing if need be between Lieut. Feraud and death.

The deaf gardener, utterly unconscious of approaching footsteps, went
on watering his flowers till Lieut. Feraud thumped him on the back.
Beholding suddenly an enraged man flourishing a big sabre, the old chap
trembling in all his limbs dropped the watering-pot. At once Lieut.
Feraud kicked it away with great animosity, and, seizing the gardener
by the throat, backed him against a tree. He held him there, shouting in
his ear, “Stay here, and look on! You understand? You’ve got to look on!
Don’t dare budge from the spot!”

Lieut. D’Hubert came slowly down the walk, unclasping his dolman with
unconcealed disgust. Even then, with his hand already on the hilt of his
sword, he hesitated to draw till a roar, “En garde, fichtre! What do you
think you came here for?” and the rush of his adversary forced him to
put himself as quickly as possible in a posture of defence.

The clash of arms filled that prim garden, which hitherto had known no
more warlike sound than the click of clipping shears; and presently the
upper part of an old lady’s body was projected out of a window upstairs.
She tossed her arms above her white cap, scolding in a cracked voice.
The gardener remained glued to the tree, his toothless mouth open in
idiotic astonishment, and a little farther up the path the pretty girl,
as if spellbound to a small grass plot, ran a few steps this way and
that, wringing her hands and muttering crazily. She did not rush between
the combatants: the onslaughts of Lieut. Feraud were so fierce that
her heart failed her. Lieut. D’Hubert, his faculties concentrated upon
defence, needed all his skill and science of the sword to stop the
rushes of his adversary. Twice already he had to break ground. It
bothered him to feel his foothold made insecure by the round, dry gravel
of the path rolling under the hard soles of his boots. This was most
unsuitable ground, he thought, keeping a watchful, narrowed gaze, shaded
by long eyelashes, upon the fiery stare of his thick-set adversary. This
absurd affair would ruin his reputation of a sensible, well-behaved,
promising young officer. It would damage, at any rate, his immediate
prospects, and lose him the good-will of his general. These worldly
preoccupations were no doubt misplaced in view of the solemnity of the
moment. A duel, whether regarded as a ceremony in the cult of honour, or
even when reduced in its moral essence to a form of manly sport, demands
a perfect singleness of intention, a homicidal austerity of mood. On
the other hand, this vivid concern for his future had not a bad effect
inasmuch as it began to rouse the anger of Lieut. D’Hubert. Some seventy
seconds had elapsed since they had crossed blades, and Lieut. D’Hubert
had to break ground again in order to avoid impaling his reckless
adversary like a beetle for a cabinet of specimens. The result was that
misapprehending the motive, Lieut. Feraud with a triumphant sort of
snarl pressed his attack.

“This enraged animal will have me against the wall directly,” thought
Lieut. D’Hubert. He imagined himself much closer to the house than
he was, and he dared not turn his head; it seemed to him that he was
keeping his adversary off with his eyes rather more than with his point.
Lieut. Feraud crouched and bounded with a fierce tigerish agility fit to
trouble the stoutest heart. But what was more appalling than the fury
of a wild beast, accomplishing in all innocence of heart a natural
function, was the fixity of savage purpose man alone is capable of
displaying. Lieut. D ‘Hubert in the midst of his worldly preoccupations
perceived it at last. It was an absurd and damaging affair to be drawn
into, but whatever silly intention the fellow had started with, it was
clear enough that by this time he meant to kill–nothing less. He meant
it with an intensity of will utterly beyond the inferior faculties of a

As is the case with constitutionally brave men, the full view of
the danger interested Lieut. D’Hubert. And directly he got properly
interested, the length of his arm and the coolness of his head told
in his favour. It was the turn of Lieut. Feraud to recoil, with a
bloodcurdling grunt of baffled rage. He made a swift feint, and then
rushed straight forward.

“Ah! you would, would you?” Lieut. D’Hubert exclaimed, mentally. The
combat had lasted nearly two minutes, time enough for any man to get
embittered, apart from the merits of the quarrel. And all at once it
was over. Trying to close breast to breast under his adversary’s guard
Lieut. Feraud received a slash on his shortened arm. He did not feel
it in the least, but it checked his rush, and his feet slipping on
the gravel he fell backwards with great violence. The shock jarred his
boiling brain into the perfect quietude of insensibility. Simultaneously
with his fall the pretty servant-girl shrieked; but the old maiden lady
at the window ceased her scolding, and began to cross herself piously.

Beholding his adversary stretched out perfectly still, his face to the
sky, Lieut. D’Hubert thought he had killed him outright. The impression
of having slashed hard enough to cut his man clean in two abode with him
for a while in an exaggerated memory of the right good-will he had
put into the blow. He dropped on his knees hastily by the side of the
prostrate body. Discovering that not even the arm was severed, a slight
sense of disappointment mingled with the feeling of relief. The fellow
deserved the worst. But truly he did not want the death of that sinner.
The affair was ugly enough as it stood, and Lieut. D’Hubert addressed
himself at once to the task of stopping the bleeding. In this task it
was his fate to be ridiculously impeded by the pretty maid. Rending the
air with screams of horror, she attacked him from behind and, twining
her fingers in his hair, tugged back at his head. Why she should
choose to hinder him at this precise moment he could not in the least
understand. He did not try. It was all like a very wicked and harassing
dream. Twice to save himself from being pulled over he had to rise and
fling her off. He did this stoically, without a word, kneeling down
again at once to go on with his work. But the third time, his work being
done, he seized her and held her arms pinned to her body. Her cap was
half off, her face was red, her eyes blazed with crazy boldness. He
looked mildly into them while she called him a wretch, a traitor, and a
murderer many times in succession. This did not annoy him so much as the
conviction that she had managed to scratch his face abundantly. Ridicule
would be added to the scandal of the story. He imagined the adorned tale
making its way through the garrison of the town, through the whole army
on the frontier, with every possible distortion of motive and sentiment
and circumstance, spreading a doubt upon the sanity of his conduct and
the distinction of his taste even to the very ears of his honourable
family. It was all very well for that fellow Feraud, who had no
connections, no family to speak of, and no quality but courage, which,
anyhow, was a matter of course, and possessed by every single trooper
in the whole mass of French cavalry. Still holding down the arms of the
girl in a strong grip, Lieut. D’Hubert glanced over his shoulder. Lieut.
Feraud had opened his eyes. He did not move. Like a man just waking from
a deep sleep he stared without any expression at the evening sky.

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Lieut. D’Hubert’s urgent shouts to the old gardener produced no
effect–not so much as to make him shut his toothless mouth. Then
he remembered that the man was stone deaf. All that time the girl
struggled, not with maidenly coyness, but like a pretty, dumb fury,
kicking his shins now and then. He continued to hold her as if in a
vice, his instinct telling him that were he to let her go she would fly
at his eyes. But he was greatly humiliated by his position. At last she
gave up. She was more exhausted than appeased, he feared. Nevertheless,
he attempted to get out of this wicked dream by way of negotiation.

“Listen to me,” he said, as calmly as he could. “Will you promise to run
for a surgeon if I let you go?”

With real affliction he heard her declare that she would do nothing of
the kind. On the contrary, her sobbed out intention was to remain in the
garden, and fight tooth and nail for the protection of the vanquished
man. This was shocking.

“My dear child!” he cried in despair, “is it possible that you think
me capable of murdering a wounded adversary? Is it. . . . Be quiet, you
little wild cat, you!”

They struggled. A thick, drowsy voice said behind him, “What are you
after with that girl?”

Lieut. Feraud had raised himself on his good arm. He was looking
sleepily at his other arm, at the mess of blood on his uniform, at a
small red pool on the ground, at his sabre lying a foot away on the
path. Then he laid himself down gently again to think it all out, as far
as a thundering headache would permit of mental operations.

Lieut. D’Hubert released the girl who crouched at once by the side of
the other lieutenant. The shades of night were falling on the little
trim garden with this touching group, whence proceeded low murmurs
of sorrow and compassion, with other feeble sounds of a different
character, as if an imperfectly awake invalid were trying to swear.
Lieut. D’Hubert went away.

He passed through the silent house, and congratulated himself upon the
dusk concealing his gory hands and scratched face from the passers-by.
But this story could by no means be concealed. He dreaded the discredit
and ridicule above everything, and was painfully aware of sneaking
through the back streets in the manner of a murderer. Presently the
sounds of a flute coming out of the open window of a lighted upstairs
room in a modest house interrupted his dismal reflections. It was being
played with a persevering virtuosity, and through the fioritures of the
tune one could hear the regular thumping of the foot beating time on the

Lieut. D’Hubert shouted a name, which was that of an army surgeon whom
he knew fairly well. The sounds of the flute ceased, and the musician
appeared at the window, his instrument still in his hand, peering into
the street.

“Who calls? You, D’Hubert? What brings you this way?”

He did not like to be disturbed at the hour when he was playing the
flute. He was a man whose hair had turned grey already in the thankless
task of tying up wounds on battlefields where others reaped advancement
and glory.

“I want you to go at once and see Feraud. You know Lieut. Feraud? He
lives down the second street. It’s but a step from here.”

“What’s the matter with him?”


“Are you sure?”

“Sure!” cried D’Hubert. “I come from there.”

“That’s amusing,” said the elderly surgeon. Amusing was his favourite
word; but the expression of his face when he pronounced it never
corresponded. He was a stolid man. “Come in,” he added. “I’ll get ready
in a moment.”

“Thanks! I will. I want to wash my hands in your room.”

Lieut. D’Hubert found the surgeon occupied in unscrewing his flute, and
packing the pieces methodically in a case. He turned his head.

“Water there–in the corner. Your hands do want washing.”

“I’ve stopped the bleeding,” said Lieut. D’Hubert. “But you had better
make haste. It’s rather more than ten minutes ago, you know.”

The surgeon did not hurry his movements.

“What’s the matter? Dressing came off? That’s amusing. I’ve been at work
in the hospital all day but I’ve been told this morning by somebody that
he had come off without a scratch.”

“Not the same duel probably,” growled moodily Lieut. D’Hubert, wiping
his hands on a coarse towel.

“Not the same. . . . What? Another. It would take the very devil to
make me go out twice in one day.” The surgeon looked narrowly at Lieut.
D’Hubert. “How did you come by that scratched face? Both sides, too–and
symmetrical. It’s amusing.”

“Very!” snarled Lieut. D’Hubert. “And you will find his slashed arm
amusing, too. It will keep both of you amused for quite a long time.”

The doctor was mystified and impressed by the brusque bitterness of
Lieut. D’Hubert’s tone. They left the house together, and in the street
he was still more mystified by his conduct.

“Aren’t you coming with me?” he asked.

“No,” said Lieut. D’Hubert. “You can find the house by yourself. The
front door will be standing open very likely.”

“All right. Where’s his room?”

“Ground floor. But you had better go right through and look in the
garden first.”

This astonishing piece of information made the surgeon go off without
further parley. Lieut. D’Hubert regained his quarters nursing a hot and
uneasy indignation. He dreaded the chaff of his comrades almost as much
as the anger of his superiors. The truth was confoundedly grotesque and
embarrassing, even putting aside the irregularity of the combat itself,
which made it come abominably near a criminal offence. Like all
men without much imagination, a faculty which helps the process of
reflective thought, Lieut. D’Hubert became frightfully harassed by the
obvious aspects of his predicament. He was certainly glad that he had
not killed Lieut. Feraud outside all rules, and without the regular
witnesses proper to such a transaction. Uncommonly glad. At the same
time he felt as though he would have liked to wring his neck for him
without ceremony.

He was still under the sway of these contradictory sentiments when the
surgeon amateur of the flute came to see him. More than three days had
elapsed. Lieut. D’Hubert was no longer officier d’ordonnance to the
general commanding the division. He had been sent back to his regiment.
And he was resuming his connection with the soldiers’ military family by
being shut up in close confinement, not at his own quarters in town, but
in a room in the barracks. Owing to the gravity of the incident, he was
forbidden to see any one. He did not know what had happened, what was
being said, or what was being thought. The arrival of the surgeon was a
most unexpected thing to the worried captive. The amateur of the flute
began by explaining that he was there only by a special favour of the

“I represented to him that it would be only fair to let you have some
authentic news of your adversary,” he continued. “You’ll be glad to hear
he’s getting better fast.”

Lieut. D’Hubert’s face exhibited no conventional signs of gladness. He
continued to walk the floor of the dusty bare room.

“Take this chair, doctor,” he mumbled.

The doctor sat down.

“This affair is variously appreciated–in town and in the army. In fact,
the diversity of opinions is amusing.”

“Is it!” mumbled Lieut. D’Hubert, tramping steadily from wall to wall.
But within himself he marvelled that there could be two opinions on the
matter. The surgeon continued.

“Of course, as the real facts are not known–”

“I should have thought,” interrupted D’Hubert, “that the fellow would
have put you in possession of facts.”

“He said something,” admitted the other, “the first time I saw him. And,
by the by, I did find him in the garden. The thump on the back of his
head had made him a little incoherent then. Afterwards he was rather
reticent than otherwise.”

“Didn’t think he would have the grace to be ashamed!” mumbled D’Hubert,
resuming his pacing while the doctor murmured, “It’s very amusing.
Ashamed! Shame was not exactly his frame of mind. However, you may look
at the matter otherwise.”

“What are you talking about? What matter?” asked D’Hubert, with a
sidelong look at the heavy-faced, grey-haired figure seated on a wooden

“Whatever it is,” said the surgeon a little impatiently, “I don’t want
to pronounce any opinion on your conduct–”

“By heavens, you had better not!” burst out D’Hubert.

“There!–there! Don’t be so quick in flourishing the sword. It doesn’t
pay in the long run. Understand once for all that I would not carve any
of you youngsters except with the tools of my trade. But my advice
is good. If you go on like this you will make for yourself an ugly

“Go on like what?” demanded Lieut. D’Hubert, stopping short, quite
startled. “I!–I!–make for myself a reputation. . . . What do you

“I told you I don’t wish to judge of the rights and wrongs of this
incident. It’s not my business. Nevertheless–”

“What on earth has he been telling you?” interrupted Lieut. D’Hubert, in
a sort of awed scare.

“I told you already, that at first, when I picked him up in the garden,
he was incoherent. Afterwards he was naturally reticent. But I gather at
least that he could not help himself.”

“He couldn’t?” shouted Lieut. D’Hubert in a great voice. Then, lowering
his tone impressively, “And what about me? Could I help myself?”

The surgeon stood up. His thoughts were running upon the flute, his
constant companion with a consoling voice. In the vicinity of field
ambulances, after twenty-four hours’ hard work, he had been known to
trouble with its sweet sounds the horrible stillness of battlefields,
given over to silence and the dead. The solacing hour of his daily life
was approaching, and in peace time he held on to the minutes as a miser
to his hoard.

“Of course!–of course!” he said, perfunctorily. “You would think so.
It’s amusing. However, being perfectly neutral and friendly to you both,
I have consented to deliver his message to you. Say that I am humouring
an invalid if you like. He wants you to know that this affair is by
no means at an end. He intends to send you his seconds directly he has
regained his strength–providing, of course, the army is not in the
field at that time.”

“He intends, does he? Why, certainly,” spluttered Lieut. D’Hubert in a

The secret of his exasperation was not apparent to the visitor; but this
passion confirmed the surgeon in the belief which was gaining ground
outside that some very serious difference had arisen between these two
young men, something serious enough to wear an air of mystery, some
fact of the utmost gravity. To settle their urgent difference about that
fact, those two young men had risked being broken and disgraced at the
outset almost of their career. The surgeon feared that the forthcoming
inquiry would fail to satisfy the public curiosity. They would not take
the public into their confidence as to that something which had passed
between them of a nature so outrageous as to make them face a charge of
murder–neither more nor less. But what could it be?

The surgeon was not very curious by temperament; but that question
haunting his mind caused him twice that evening to hold the instrument
off his lips and sit silent for a whole minute–right in the middle of a
tune–trying to form a plausible conjecture.

He succeeded in this object no better than the rest of the garrison and
the whole of society. The two young officers, of no especial consequence
till then, became distinguished by the universal curiosity as to the
origin of their quarrel. Madame de Lionne’s salon was the centre
of ingenious surmises; that lady herself was for a time assailed by
inquiries as being the last person known to have spoken to these unhappy
and reckless young men before they went out together from her house to
a savage encounter with swords, at dusk, in a private garden. She
protested she had not observed anything unusual in their demeanour.
Lieut. Feraud had been visibly annoyed at being called away. That was
natural enough; no man likes to be disturbed in a conversation with a
lady famed for her elegance and sensibility. But in truth the subject
bored Madame de Lionne, since her personality could by no stretch of
reckless gossip be connected with this affair. And it irritated her to
hear it advanced that there might have been some woman in the case. This
irritation arose, not from her elegance or sensibility, but from a more
instinctive side of her nature. It became so great at last that she
peremptorily forbade the subject to be mentioned under her roof. Near
her couch the prohibition was obeyed, but farther off in the salon
the pall of the imposed silence continued to be lifted more or less. A
personage with a long, pale face, resembling the countenance of a
sheep, opined, shaking his head, that it was a quarrel of long standing
envenomed by time. It was objected to him that the men themselves were
too young for such a theory. They belonged also to different and distant
parts of France. There were other physical impossibilities, too. A
sub-commissary of the Intendence, an agreeable and cultivated bachelor
in kerseymere breeches, Hessian boots, and a blue coat embroidered with
silver lace, who affected to believe in the transmigration of souls,
suggested that the two had met perhaps in some previous existence.
The feud was in the forgotten past. It might have been something quite
inconceivable in the present state of their being; but their souls
remembered the animosity, and manifested an instinctive antagonism. He
developed this theme jocularly. Yet the affair was so absurd from the
worldly, the military, the honourable, or the prudential point of view,
that this weird explanation seemed rather more reasonable than any

The two officers had confided nothing definite to any one. Humiliation
at having been worsted arms in hand, and an uneasy feeling of having
been involved in a scrape by the injustice of fate, kept Lieut. Feraud
savagely dumb. He mistrusted the sympathy of mankind. That would, of
course, go to that dandified staff officer. Lying in bed, he raved aloud
to the pretty maid who administered to his needs with devotion, and
listened to his horrible imprecations with alarm. That Lieut. D’Hubert
should be made to “pay for it,” seemed to her just and natural. Her
principal care was that Lieut. Feraud should not excite himself. He
appeared so wholly admirable and fascinating to the humility of her
heart that her only concern was to see him get well quickly, even if it
were only to resume his visits to Madame de Lionne’s salon.

Lieut. D’Hubert kept silent for the immediate reason that there was no
one, except a stupid young soldier servant, to speak to. Further, he
was aware that the episode, so grave professionally, had its comic
side. When reflecting upon it, he still felt that he would like to wring
Lieut. Feraud’s neck for him. But this formula was figurative rather
than precise, and expressed more a state of mind than an actual physical
impulse. At the same time, there was in that young man a feeling of
comradeship and kindness which made him unwilling to make the position
of Lieut. Feraud worse than it was. He did not want to talk at large
about this wretched affair. At the inquiry he would have, of course, to
speak the truth in self-defence. This prospect vexed him.

But no inquiry took place. The army took the field instead. Lieut.
D’Hubert, liberated without remark, took up his regimental duties; and
Lieut. Feraud, his arm just out of the sling, rode unquestioned with his
squadron to complete his convalescence in the smoke of battlefields and
the fresh air of night bivouacs. This bracing treatment suited him so
well, that at the first rumour of an armistice being signed he could
turn without misgivings to the thoughts of his private warfare.

This time it was to be regular warfare. He sent two friends to Lieut.
D’Hubert, whose regiment was stationed only a few miles away. Those
friends had asked no questions of their principal. “I owe him one, that
pretty staff officer,” he had said, grimly, and they went away quite
contentedly on their mission. Lieut. D’Hubert had no difficulty in
finding two friends equally discreet and devoted to their principal.
“There’s a crazy fellow to whom I must give a lesson,” he had declared
curtly; and they asked for no better reasons.

On these grounds an encounter with duelling-swords was arranged one
early morning in a convenient field. At the third set-to Lieut. D’Hubert
found himself lying on his back on the dewy grass with a hole in his
side. A serene sun rising over a landscape of meadows and woods hung on
his left. A surgeon–not the flute player, but another–was bending over
him, feeling around the wound.

“Narrow squeak. But it will be nothing,” he pronounced.

Lieut. D’Hubert heard these words with pleasure. One of his seconds,
sitting on the wet grass, and sustaining his head on his lap, said, “The
fortune of war, mon pauvre vieux. What will you have? You had better
make it up like two good fellows. Do!”

“You don’t know what you ask,” murmured Lieut. D’Hubert, in a feeble
voice. “However, if he . . .”

In another part of the meadow the seconds of Lieut. Feraud were urging
him to go over and shake hands with his adversary.

“You have paid him off now–que diable. It’s the proper thing to do.
This D’Hubert is a decent fellow.”

“I know the decency of these generals’ pets,” muttered Lieut. Feraud
through his teeth, and the sombre expression of his face discouraged
further efforts at reconciliation. The seconds, bowing from a distance,
took their men off the field. In the afternoon Lieut. D’Hubert, very
popular as a good comrade uniting great bravery with a frank and equable
temper, had many visitors. It was remarked that Lieut. Feraud did not,
as is customary, show himself much abroad to receive the felicitations
of his friends. They would not have failed him, because he, too, was
liked for the exuberance of his southern nature and the simplicity of
his character. In all the places where officers were in the habit of
assembling at the end of the day the duel of the morning was talked over
from every point of view. Though Lieut. D’Hubert had got worsted this
time, his sword play was commended. No one could deny that it was very
close, very scientific. It was even whispered that if he got touched it
was because he wished to spare his adversary. But by many the vigour and
dash of Lieut. Feraud’s attack were pronounced irresistible.

The merits of the two officers as combatants were frankly discussed; but
their attitude to each other after the duel was criticised lightly and
with caution. It was irreconcilable, and that was to be regretted. But
after all they knew best what the care of their honour dictated. It was
not a matter for their comrades to pry into over-much. As to the origin
of the quarrel, the general impression was that it dated from the time
they were holding garrison in Strasbourg. The musical surgeon shook his
head at that. It went much farther back, he thought.

“Why, of course! You must know the whole story,” cried several voices,
eager with curiosity. “What was it?”

He raised his eyes from his glass deliberately. “Even if I knew ever so
well, you can’t expect me to tell you, since both the principals choose
to say nothing.”

He got up and went out, leaving the sense of mystery behind him. He
could not stay any longer, because the witching hour of flute-playing
was drawing near.

After he had gone a very young officer observed solemnly, “Obviously,
his lips are sealed!”

Nobody questioned the high correctness of that remark. Somehow it added
to the impressiveness of the affair. Several older officers of both
regiments, prompted by nothing but sheer kindness and love of harmony,
proposed to form a Court of Honour, to which the two young men would
leave the task of their reconciliation. Unfortunately they began by
approaching Lieut. Feraud, on the assumption that, having just scored
heavily, he would be found placable and disposed to moderation.

The reasoning was sound enough. Nevertheless, the move turned out
unfortunate. In that relaxation of moral fibre, which is brought about
by the ease of soothed vanity, Lieut. Feraud had condescended in the
secret of his heart to review the case, and even had come to doubt not
the justice of his cause, but the absolute sagacity of his conduct. This
being so, he was disinclined to talk about it. The suggestion of the
regimental wise men put him in a difficult position. He was disgusted at
it, and this disgust, by a paradoxical logic, reawakened his animosity
against Lieut. D’Hubert. Was he to be pestered with this fellow for
ever–the fellow who had an infernal knack of getting round people
somehow? And yet it was difficult to refuse point blank that mediation
sanctioned by the code of honour.

He met the difficulty by an attitude of grim reserve. He twisted his
moustache and used vague words. His case was perfectly clear. He was
not ashamed to state it before a proper Court of Honour, neither was he
afraid to defend it on the ground. He did not see any reason to jump at
the suggestion before ascertaining how his adversary was likely to take

Later in the day, his exasperation growing upon him, he was heard in a
public place saying sardonically, “that it would be the very luckiest
thing for Lieut. D’Hubert, because the next time of meeting he need not
hope to get off with the mere trifle of three weeks in bed.”

This boastful phrase might have been prompted by the most profound
Machiavellism. Southern natures often hide, under the outward
impulsiveness of action and speech, a certain amount of astuteness.

Lieut. Feraud, mistrusting the justice of men, by no means desired
a Court of Honour; and the above words, according so well with his
temperament, had also the merit of serving his turn. Whether meant so or
not, they found their way in less than four-and-twenty hours into Lieut.
D’Hubert’s bedroom. In consequence Lieut. D’Hubert, sitting propped
up with pillows, received the overtures made to him next day by
the statement that the affair was of a nature which could not bear

The pale face of the wounded officer, his weak voice which he had yet to
use cautiously, and the courteous dignity of his tone had a great effect
on his hearers. Reported outside all this did more for deepening the
mystery than the vapourings of Lieut. Feraud. This last was greatly
relieved at the issue. He began to enjoy the state of general wonder,
and was pleased to add to it by assuming an attitude of fierce

The colonel of Lieut. D’Hubert’s regiment was a grey-haired,
weather-beaten warrior, who took a simple view of his responsibilities.
“I can’t,” he said to himself, “let the best of my subalterns get
damaged like this for nothing. I must get to the bottom of this affair
privately. He must speak out if the devil were in it. The colonel should
be more than a father to these youngsters.” And indeed he loved all his
men with as much affection as a father of a large family can feel
for every individual member of it. If human beings by an oversight of
Providence came into the world as mere civilians, they were born again
into a regiment as infants are born into a family, and it was that
military birth alone which counted.

At the sight of Lieut. D’Hubert standing before him very bleached
and hollow-eyed the heart of the old warrior felt a pang of genuine
compassion. All his affection for the regiment–that body of men which
he held in his hand to launch forward and draw back, who ministered to
his pride and commanded all his thoughts–seemed centred for a moment on
the person of the most promising subaltern. He cleared his throat in
a threatening manner, and frowned terribly. “You must understand,” he
began, “that I don’t care a rap for the life of a single man in the
regiment. I would send the eight hundred and forty-three of you men and
horses galloping into the pit of perdition with no more compunction than
I would kill a fly!”

“Yes, Colonel. You would be riding at our head,” said Lieut. D’Hubert
with a wan smile.

The colonel, who felt the need of being very diplomatic, fairly roared
at this. “I want you to know, Lieut. D’Hubert, that I could stand aside
and see you all riding to Hades if need be. I am a man to do even that
if the good of the service and my duty to my country required it from
me. But that’s unthinkable, so don’t you even hint at such a thing.” He
glared awfully, but his tone softened. “There’s some milk yet about that
moustache of yours, my boy. You don’t know what a man like me is capable
of. I would hide behind a haystack if . . . Don’t grin at me, sir! How
dare you? If this were not a private conversation I would . . . Look
here! I am responsible for the proper expenditure of lives under my
command for the glory of our country and the honour of the regiment. Do
you understand that? Well, then, what the devil do you mean by letting
yourself be spitted like this by that fellow of the 7th Hussars? It’s
simply disgraceful!”

Lieut. D’Hubert felt vexed beyond measure. His shoulders moved slightly.
He made no other answer. He could not ignore his responsibility.

The colonel veiled his glance and lowered his voice still more. “It’s
deplorable!” he murmured. And again he changed his tone. “Come!” he went
on, persuasively, but with that note of authority which dwells in the
throat of a good leader of men, “this affair must be settled. I desire
to be told plainly what it is all about. I demand, as your best friend,
to know.”

The compelling power of authority, the persuasive influence of kindness,
affected powerfully a man just risen from a bed of sickness. Lieut.
D’Hubert’s hand, which grasped the knob of a stick, trembled
slightly. But his northern temperament, sentimental yet cautious and
clear-sighted, too, in its idealistic way, checked his impulse to make a
clean breast of the whole deadly absurdity. According to the precept
of transcendental wisdom, he turned his tongue seven times in his mouth
before he spoke. He made then only a speech of thanks.

The colonel listened, interested at first, then looked mystified. At
last he frowned. “You hesitate?–mille tonnerres! Haven’t I told you
that I will condescend to argue with you–as a friend?”

“Yes, Colonel!” answered Lieut. D’Hubert, gently. “But I am afraid
that after you have heard me out as a friend you will take action as my
superior officer.”

The attentive colonel snapped his jaws. “Well, what of that?” he said,
frankly. “Is it so damnably disgraceful?”

“It is not,” negatived Lieut. D’Hubert, in a faint but firm voice.

“Of course, I shall act for the good of the service. Nothing can prevent
me doing that. What do you think I want to be told for?”

“I know it is not from idle curiosity,” protested Lieut. D’Hubert. “I
know you will act wisely. But what about the good fame of the regiment?”

“It cannot be affected by any youthful folly of a lieutenant,” said the
colonel, severely.

“No. It cannot be. But it can be by evil tongues. It will be said that
a lieutenant of the 4th Hussars, afraid of meeting his adversary, is
hiding behind his colonel. And that would be worse than hiding behind
a haystack–for the good of the service. I cannot afford to do that,

“Nobody would dare to say anything of the kind,” began the colonel very
fiercely, but ended the phrase on an uncertain note. The bravery of
Lieut. D’Hubert was well known. But the colonel was well aware that
the duelling courage, the single combat courage, is rightly or wrongly
supposed to be courage of a special sort. And it was eminently
necessary that an officer of his regiment should possess every kind of
courage–and prove it, too. The colonel stuck out his lower lip, and
looked far away with a peculiar glazed stare. This was the expression of
his perplexity–an expression practically unknown to his regiment; for
perplexity is a sentiment which is incompatible with the rank of colonel
of cavalry. The colonel himself was overcome by the unpleasant
novelty of the sensation. As he was not accustomed to think except on
professional matters connected with the welfare of men and horses, and
the proper use thereof on the field of glory, his intellectual efforts
degenerated into mere mental repetitions of profane language. “Mille
tonnerres! . . . Sacre nom de nom . . .” he thought.

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Lieut. D’Hubert coughed painfully, and added in a weary voice: “There
will be plenty of evil tongues to say that I’ve been cowed. And I
am sure you will not expect me to pass that over. I may find myself
suddenly with a dozen duels on my hands instead of this one affair.”

The direct simplicity of this argument came home to the colonel’s
understanding. He looked at his subordinate fixedly. “Sit down,
Lieutenant!” he said, gruffly. “This is the very devil of a . . . Sit

“Mon Colonel,” D’Hubert began again, “I am not afraid of evil tongues.
There’s a way of silencing them. But there’s my peace of mind, too.
I wouldn’t be able to shake off the notion that I’ve ruined a brother
officer. Whatever action you take, it is bound to go farther. The
inquiry has been dropped–let it rest now. It would have been absolutely
fatal to Feraud.”

“Hey! What! Did he behave so badly?”

“Yes. It was pretty bad,” muttered Lieut. D’Hubert. Being still very
weak, he felt a disposition to cry.

As the other man did not belong to his own regiment the colonel had no
difficulty in believing this. He began to pace up and down the room. He
was a good chief, a man capable of discreet sympathy. But he was human
in other ways, too, and this became apparent because he was not capable
of artifice.

“The very devil, Lieutenant,” he blurted out, in the innocence of his
heart, “is that I have declared my intention to get to the bottom of
this affair. And when a colonel says something . . . you see . . .”

Lieut. D’Hubert broke in earnestly: “Let me entreat you, Colonel, to be
satisfied with taking my word of honour that I was put into a damnable
position where I had no option; I had no choice whatever, consistent
with my dignity as a man and an officer. . . . After all, Colonel, this
fact is the very bottom of this affair. Here you’ve got it. The rest is
mere detail. . . .”

The colonel stopped short. The reputation of Lieut. D’Hubert for good
sense and good temper weighed in the balance. A cool head, a warm heart,
open as the day. Always correct in his behaviour. One had to trust him.
The colonel repressed manfully an immense curiosity. “H’m! You affirm
that as a man and an officer. . . . No option? Eh?”

“As an officer–an officer of the 4th Hussars, too,” insisted Lieut.
D’Hubert, “I had not. And that is the bottom of the affair, Colonel.”

“Yes. But still I don’t see why, to one’s colonel. . . . A colonel is a
father–que diable!”

Lieut. D’Hubert ought not to have been allowed out as yet. He was
becoming aware of his physical insufficiency with humiliation and
despair. But the morbid obstinacy of an invalid possessed him, and at
the same time he felt with dismay his eyes filling with water. This
trouble seemed too big to handle. A tear fell down the thin, pale cheek
of Lieut. D’Hubert.

The colonel turned his back on him hastily. You could have heard a pin
drop. “This is some silly woman story–is it not?”

Saying these words the chief spun round to seize the truth, which is
not a beautiful shape living in a well, but a shy bird best caught by
stratagem. This was the last move of the colonel’s diplomacy. He saw the
truth shining unmistakably in the gesture of Lieut. D’Hubert raising his
weak arms and his eyes to heaven in supreme protest.

“Not a woman affair–eh?” growled the colonel, staring hard. “I don’t
ask you who or where. All I want to know is whether there is a woman in

Lieut. D’Hubert’s arms dropped, and his weak voice was pathetically

“Nothing of the kind, mon Colonel.”

“On your honour?” insisted the old warrior.

“On my honour.”

“Very well,” said the colonel, thoughtfully, and bit his lip. The
arguments of Lieut. D’Hubert, helped by his liking for the man, had
convinced him. On the other hand, it was highly improper that his
intervention, of which he had made no secret, should produce no visible
effect. He kept Lieut. D’Hubert a few minutes longer, and dismissed him

“Take a few days more in bed. Lieutenant. What the devil does the
surgeon mean by reporting you fit for duty?”

On coming out of the colonel’s quarters, Lieut. D’Hubert said nothing to
the friend who was waiting outside to take him home. He said nothing to
anybody. Lieut. D’Hubert made no confidences. But on the evening of that
day the colonel, strolling under the elms growing near his quarters, in
the company of his second in command, opened his lips.

“I’ve got to the bottom of this affair,” he remarked. The
lieut.-colonel, a dry, brown chip of a man with short side-whiskers,
pricked up his ears at that without letting a sign of curiosity escape

“It’s no trifle,” added the colonel, oracularly. The other waited for a
long while before he murmured:

“Indeed, sir!”

“No trifle,” repeated the colonel, looking straight before him. “I’ve,
however, forbidden D’Hubert either to send to or receive a challenge
from Feraud for the next twelve months.”

He had imagined this prohibition to save the prestige a colonel should
have. The result of it was to give an official seal to the mystery
surrounding this deadly quarrel. Lieut. D’Hubert repelled by an
impassive silence all attempts to worm the truth out of him. Lieut.
Feraud, secretly uneasy at first, regained his assurance as time went
on. He disguised his ignorance of the meaning of the imposed truce by
slight sardonic laughs, as though he were amused by what he intended to
keep to himself. “But what will you do?” his chums used to ask him. He
contented himself by replying “Qui vivra verra” with a little truculent
air. And everybody admired his discretion.

Before the end of the truce Lieut. D’Hubert got his troop. The promotion
was well earned, but somehow no one seemed to expect the event. When
Lieut. Feraud heard of it at a gathering of officers, he muttered
through his teeth, “Is that so?” At once he unhooked his sabre from a
peg near the door, buckled it on carefully, and left the company without
another word. He walked home with measured steps, struck a light with
his flint and steel, and lit his tallow candle. Then snatching an
unlucky glass tumbler off the mantelpiece he dashed it violently on the

Now that D’Hubert was an officer of superior rank there could be no
question of a duel. Neither of them could send or receive a challenge
without rendering himself amenable to a court-martial. It was not to be
thought of. Lieut. Feraud, who for many days now had experienced no
real desire to meet Lieut. D’Hubert arms in hand, chafed again at the
systematic injustice of fate. “Does he think he will escape me in that
way?” he thought, indignantly. He saw in this promotion an intrigue, a
conspiracy, a cowardly manoeuvre. That colonel knew what he was doing.
He had hastened to recommend his favourite for a step. It was outrageous
that a man should be able to avoid the consequences of his acts in such
a dark and tortuous manner.

Of a happy-go-lucky disposition, of a temperament more pugnacious than
military, Lieut. Feraud had been content to give and receive blows for
sheer love of armed strife, and without much thought of advancement; but
now an urgent desire to get on sprang up in his breast. This fighter by
vocation resolved in his mind to seize showy occasions and to court the
favourable opinion of his chiefs like a mere worldling. He knew he was
as brave as any one, and never doubted his personal charm. Nevertheless,
neither the bravery nor the charm seemed to work very swiftly. Lieut.
Feraud’s engaging, careless truculence of a beau sabreur underwent a
change. He began to make bitter allusions to “clever fellows who stick
at nothing to get on.” The army was full of them, he would say; you had
only to look round. But all the time he had in view one person only, his
adversary, D’Hubert. Once he confided to an appreciative friend: “You
see, I don’t know how to fawn on the right sort of people. It isn’t in
my character.”

He did not get his step till a week after Austerlitz. The Light Cavalry
of the Grand Army had its hands very full of interesting work for a
little while. Directly the pressure of professional occupation had been
eased Captain Feraud took measures to arrange a meeting without loss of
time. “I know my bird,” he observed, grimly. “If I don’t look sharp he
will take care to get himself promoted over the heads of a dozen better
men than himself. He’s got the knack for that sort of thing.”

This duel was fought in Silesia. If not fought to a finish, it was, at
any rate, fought to a standstill. The weapon was the cavalry sabre, and
the skill, the science, the vigour, and the determination displayed by
the adversaries compelled the admiration of the beholders. It became
the subject of talk on both shores of the Danube, and as far as the
garrisons of Gratz and Laybach. They crossed blades seven times. Both
had many cuts which bled profusely. Both refused to have the combat
stopped, time after time, with what appeared the most deadly animosity.
This appearance was caused on the part of Captain D’Hubert by a rational
desire to be done once for all with this worry; on the part of Captain
Feraud by a tremendous exaltation of his pugnacious instincts and the
incitement of wounded vanity. At last, dishevelled, their shirts in
rags, covered with gore and hardly able to stand, they were led away
forcibly by their marvelling and horrified seconds. Later on, besieged
by comrades avid of details, these gentlemen declared that they could
not have allowed that sort of hacking to go on indefinitely. Asked
whether the quarrel was settled this time, they gave it out as their
conviction that it was a difference which could only be settled by one
of the parties remaining lifeless on the ground. The sensation spread
from army corps to army corps, and penetrated at last to the smallest
detachments of the troops cantoned between the Rhine and the Save. In
the cafes in Vienna it was generally estimated, from details to hand,
that the adversaries would be able to meet again in three weeks’ time
on the outside. Something really transcendent in the way of duelling was

These expectations were brought to naught by the necessities of the
service which separated the two officers. No official notice had been
taken of their quarrel. It was now the property of the army, and not
to be meddled with lightly. But the story of the duel, or rather their
duelling propensities, must have stood somewhat in the way of their
advancement, because they were still captains when they came together
again during the war with Prussia. Detached north after Jena, with
the army commanded by Marshal Bernadotte, Prince of Ponte Corvo, they
entered Lubeck together.

It was only after the occupation of that town that Captain Feraud found
leisure to consider his future conduct in view of the fact that Captain
D’Hubert had been given the position of third aide-de-camp to the
marshal. He considered it a great part of a night, and in the morning
summoned two sympathetic friends.

“I’ve been thinking it over calmly,” he said, gazing at them with
blood-shot, tired eyes. “I see that I must get rid of that intriguing
personage. Here he’s managed to sneak on to the personal staff of the
marshal. It’s a direct provocation to me. I can’t tolerate a situation
in which I am exposed any day to receive an order through him. And God
knows what order, too! That sort of thing has happened once before–and
that’s once too often. He understands this perfectly, never fear. I
can’t tell you any more. Now you know what it is you have to do.”

This encounter took place outside the town of Lubeck, on very open
ground, selected with special care in deference to the general sentiment
of the cavalry division belonging to the army corps, that this time
the two officers should meet on horseback. After all, this duel was a
cavalry affair, and to persist in fighting on foot would look like a
slight on one’s own arm of the service. The seconds, startled by the
unusual nature of the suggestion, hastened to refer to their principals.
Captain Feraud jumped at it with alacrity. For some obscure reason,
depending, no doubt, on his psychology, he imagined himself invincible
on horseback. All alone within the four walls of his room he rubbed his
hands and muttered triumphantly, “Aha! my pretty staff officer, I’ve got
you now.”

Captain D’Hubert on his side, after staring hard for a considerable
time at his friends, shrugged his shoulders slightly. This affair had
hopelessly and unreasonably complicated his existence for him. One
absurdity more or less in the development did not matter–all absurdity
was distasteful to him; but, urbane as ever, he produced a faintly
ironical smile, and said in his calm voice, “It certainly will do away
to some extent with the monotony of the thing.”

When left alone, he sat down at a table and took his head into his
hands. He had not spared himself of late and the marshal had been
working all his aides-decamp particularly hard. The last three weeks of
campaigning in horrible weather had affected his health. When over-tired
he suffered from a stitch in his wounded side, and that uncomfortable
sensation always depressed him. “It’s that brute’s doing, too,” he
thought bitterly.

The day before he had received a letter from home, announcing that his
only sister was going to be married. He reflected that from the time she
was nineteen and he twenty-six, when he went away to garrison life in
Strasbourg, he had had but two short glimpses of her. They had been
great friends and confidants; and now she was going to be given away to
a man whom he did not know–a very worthy fellow no doubt, but not half
good enough for her. He would never see his old Leonie again. She had
a capable little head, and plenty of tact; she would know how to manage
the fellow, to be sure. He was easy in his mind about her happiness but
he felt ousted from the first place in her thoughts which had been his
ever since the girl could speak. A melancholy regret of the days of
his childhood settled upon Captain D’Hubert, third aide-de-camp to the
Prince of Ponte Corvo.

He threw aside the letter of congratulation he had begun to write as in
duty bound, but without enthusiasm. He took a fresh piece of paper, and
traced on it the words: “This is my last will and testament.” Looking at
these words he gave himself up to unpleasant reflection; a presentiment
that he would never see the scenes of his childhood weighed down the
equable spirits of Captain D’Hubert. He jumped up, pushing his chair
back, yawned elaborately in sign that he didn’t care anything for
presentiments, and throwing himself on the bed went to sleep. During the
night he shivered from time to time without waking up. In the morning he
rode out of town between his two seconds, talking of indifferent things,
and looking right and left with apparent detachment into the heavy
morning mists shrouding the flat green fields bordered by hedges. He
leaped a ditch, and saw the forms of many mounted men moving in the fog.
“We are to fight before a gallery, it seems,” he muttered to himself,

His seconds were rather concerned at the state of the atmosphere, but
presently a pale, sickly sun struggled out of the low vapours, and
Captain D’Hubert made out, in the distance, three horsemen riding a
little apart from the others. It was Captain Feraud and his seconds. He
drew his sabre, and assured himself that it was properly fastened to his
wrist. And now the seconds, who had been standing in close group with
the heads of their horses together, separated at an easy canter, leaving
a large, clear field between him and his adversary. Captain D’Hubert
looked at the pale sun, at the dismal fields, and the imbecility of the
impending fight filled him with desolation. From a distant part of
the field a stentorian voice shouted commands at proper intervals: Au
pas–Au trot–Charrrgez! . . . Presentiments of death don’t come to
a man for nothing, he thought at the very moment he put spurs to his

And therefore he was more than surprised when, at the very first set-to,
Captain Feraud laid himself open to a cut over the forehead, which
blinding him with blood, ended the combat almost before it had fairly
begun. It was impossible to go on. Captain D’Hubert, leaving his enemy
swearing horribly and reeling in the saddle between his two appalled
friends, leaped the ditch again into the road and trotted home with his
two seconds, who seemed rather awestruck at the speedy issue of that
encounter. In the evening Captain D’Hubert finished the congratulatory
letter on his sister’s marriage.

He finished it late. It was a long letter. Captain D’Hubert gave reins
to his fancy. He told his sister that he would feel rather lonely after
this great change in her life; but then the day would come for him, too,
to get married. In fact, he was thinking already of the time when there
would be no one left to fight with in Europe and the epoch of wars would
be over. “I expect then,” he wrote, “to be within measurable distance
of a marshal’s baton, and you will be an experienced married woman. You
shall look out a wife for me. I will be, probably, bald by then, and a
little blase. I shall require a young girl, pretty of course, and with
a large fortune, which should help me to close my glorious career in the
splendour befitting my exalted rank.” He ended with the information
that he had just given a lesson to a worrying, quarrelsome fellow who
imagined he had a grievance against him. “But if you, in the depths of
your province,” he continued, “ever hear it said that your brother is of
a quarrelsome disposition, don’t you believe it on any account. There
is no saying what gossip from the army may reach your innocent ears.
Whatever you hear you may rest assured that your ever-loving brother is
not a duellist.” Then Captain D’Hubert crumpled up the blank sheet of
paper headed with the words “This is my last will and testament,” and
threw it in the fire with a great laugh at himself. He didn’t care
a snap for what that lunatic could do. He had suddenly acquired the
conviction that his adversary was utterly powerless to affect his life
in any sort of way; except, perhaps, in the way of putting a special
excitement into the delightful, gay intervals between the campaigns.

From this on there were, however, to be no peaceful intervals in the
career of Captain D’Hubert. He saw the fields of Eylau and Friedland,
marched and countermarched in the snow, in the mud, in the dust of
Polish plains, picking up distinction and advancement on all the roads
of North-eastern Europe. Meantime, Captain Feraud, despatched southwards
with his regiment, made unsatisfactory war in Spain. It was only when
the preparations for the Russian campaign began that he was ordered
north again. He left the country of mantillas and oranges without

The first signs of a not unbecoming baldness added to the lofty aspect
of Colonel D’Hubert’s forehead. This feature was no longer white and
smooth as in the days of his youth; the kindly open glance of his blue
eyes had grown a little hard as if from much peering through the smoke
of battles. The ebony crop on Colonel Feraud’s head, coarse and crinkly
like a cap of horsehair, showed many silver threads about the temples. A
detestable warfare of ambushes and inglorious surprises had not improved
his temper. The beak-like curve of his nose was unpleasantly set off
by a deep fold on each side of his mouth. The round orbits of his eyes
radiated wrinkles. More than ever he recalled an irritable and staring
bird–something like a cross between a parrot and an owl. He was still
extremely outspoken in his dislike of “intriguing fellows.” He seized
every opportunity to state that he did not pick up his rank in the
ante-rooms of marshals. The unlucky persons, civil or military, who,
with an intention of being pleasant, begged Colonel Feraud to tell them
how he came by that very apparent scar on the forehead, were astonished
to find themselves snubbed in various ways, some of which were simply
rude and others mysteriously sardonic. Young officers were warned kindly
by their more experienced comrades not to stare openly at the colonel’s
scar. But indeed an officer need have been very young in his profession
not to have heard the legendary tale of that duel originating in a
mysterious, unforgivable offence.

The retreat from Moscow submerged all private feelings in a sea of
disaster and misery. Colonels without regiments, D’Hubert and Feraud
carried the musket in the ranks of the so-called sacred battalion–a
battalion recruited from officers of all arms who had no longer any
troops to lead.

In that battalion promoted colonels did duty as sergeants; the generals
captained the companies; a marshal of France, Prince of the Empire,
commanded the whole. All had provided themselves with muskets picked
up on the road, and with cartridges taken from the dead. In the general
destruction of the bonds of discipline and duty holding together the
companies, the battalions, the regiments, the brigades, and divisions
of an armed host, this body of men put its pride in preserving some
semblance of order and formation. The only stragglers were those who
fell out to give up to the frost their exhausted souls. They plodded
on, and their passage did not disturb the mortal silence of the plains,
shining with the livid light of snows under a sky the colour of
ashes. Whirlwinds ran along the fields, broke against the dark column,
enveloped it in a turmoil of flying icicles, and subsided, disclosing it
creeping on its tragic way without the swing and rhythm of the military
pace. It struggled onwards, the men exchanging neither words nor looks;
whole ranks marched touching elbow, day after day and never raising
their eyes from the ground, as if lost in despairing reflections. In the
dumb, black forests of pines the cracking of overloaded branches was the
only sound they heard. Often from daybreak to dusk no one spoke in the
whole column. It was like a macabre march of struggling corpses towards
a distant grave. Only an alarm of Cossacks could restore to their eyes a
semblance of martial resolution. The battalion faced about and deployed,
or formed square under the endless fluttering of snowflakes. A cloud of
horsemen with fur caps on their heads, levelled long lances, and yelled
“Hurrah! Hurrah!” around their menacing immobility whence, with muffled
detonations, hundreds of dark red flames darted through the air thick
with falling snow. In a very few moments the horsemen would disappear,
as if carried off yelling in the gale, and the sacred battalion standing
still, alone in the blizzard, heard only the howling of the wind, whose
blasts searched their very hearts. Then, with a cry or two of “Vive
l’Empereur!” it would resume its march, leaving behind a few lifeless
bodies lying huddled up, tiny black specks on the white immensity of the

Though often marching in the ranks, or skirmishing in the woods side
by side, the two officers ignored each other; this not so much from
inimical intention as from a very real indifference. All their store of
moral energy was expended in resisting the terrific enmity of nature and
the crushing sense of irretrievable disaster. To the last they counted
among the most active, the least demoralized of the battalion; their
vigorous vitality invested them both with the appearance of an heroic
pair in the eyes of their comrades. And they never exchanged more than
a casual word or two, except one day, when skirmishing in front of the
battalion against a worrying attack of cavalry, they found themselves
cut off in the woods by a small party of Cossacks. A score of
fur-capped, hairy horsemen rode to and fro, brandishing their lances
in ominous silence; but the two officers had no mind to lay down their
arms, and Colonel Feraud suddenly spoke up in a hoarse, growling voice,
bringing his firelock to the shoulder. “You take the nearest brute,
Colonel D’Hubert; I’ll settle the next one. I am a better shot than you

Colonel D’Hubert nodded over his levelled musket. Their shoulders were
pressed against the trunk of a large tree; on their front enormous
snowdrifts protected them from a direct charge. Two carefully aimed
shots rang out in the frosty air, two Cossacks reeled in their saddles.
The rest, not thinking the game good enough, closed round their wounded
comrades and galloped away out of range. The two officers managed to
rejoin their battalion halted for the night. During that afternoon they
had leaned upon each other more than once, and towards the end, Colonel
D’Hubert, whose long legs gave him an advantage in walking through
soft snow, peremptorily took the musket of Colonel Feraud from him and
carried it on his shoulder, using his own as a staff.

On the outskirts of a village half buried in the snow an old wooden
barn burned with a clear and an immense flame. The sacred battalion
of skeletons, muffled in rags, crowded greedily the windward side,
stretching hundreds of numbed, bony hands to the blaze. Nobody had
noted their approach. Before entering the circle of light playing on the
sunken, glassy-eyed, starved faces, Colonel D’Hubert spoke in his turn:

“Here’s your musket, Colonel Feraud. I can walk better than you.”

Colonel Feraud nodded, and pushed on towards the warmth of the fierce
flames. Colonel D’Hubert was more deliberate, but not the less bent on
getting a place in the front rank. Those they shouldered aside tried
to greet with a faint cheer the reappearance of the two indomitable
companions in activity and endurance. Those manly qualities had never
perhaps received a higher tribute than this feeble acclamation.

This is the faithful record of speeches exchanged during the retreat
from Moscow by Colonels Feraud and D’Hubert. Colonel Feraud’s
taciturnity was the outcome of concentrated rage. Short, hairy, black
faced, with layers of grime and the thick sprouting of a wiry beard,
a frost-bitten hand wrapped up in filthy rags carried in a sling, he
accused fate of unparalleled perfidy towards the sublime Man of Destiny.
Colonel D’Hubert, his long moustaches pendent in icicles on each side of
his cracked blue lips, his eyelids inflamed with the glare of snows, the
principal part of his costume consisting of a sheepskin coat looted
with difficulty from the frozen corpse of a camp follower found in an
abandoned cart, took a more thoughtful view of events. His regularly
handsome features, now reduced to mere bony lines and fleshless hollows,
looked out of a woman’s black velvet hood, over which was rammed
forcibly a cocked hat picked up under the wheels of an empty army
fourgon, which must have contained at one time some general officer’s
luggage. The sheepskin coat being short for a man of his inches ended
very high up, and the skin of his legs, blue with the cold, showed
through the tatters of his nether garments. This under the circumstances
provoked neither jeers nor pity. No one cared how the next man felt or
looked. Colonel D’Hubert himself, hardened to exposure, suffered mainly
in his self-respect from the lamentable indecency of his costume. A
thoughtless person may think that with a whole host of inanimate bodies
bestrewing the path of retreat there could not have been much difficulty
in supplying the deficiency. But to loot a pair of breeches from a
frozen corpse is not so easy as it may appear to a mere theorist. It
requires time and labour. You must remain behind while your companions
march on. Colonel D’Hubert had his scruples as to falling out. Once he
had stepped aside he could not be sure of ever rejoining his battalion;
and the ghastly intimacy of a wrestling match with the frozen dead
opposing the unyielding rigidity of iron to your violence was repugnant
to the delicacy of his feelings. Luckily, one day, grubbing in a mound
of snow between the huts of a village in the hope of finding there a
frozen potato or some vegetable garbage he could put between his long
and shaky teeth, Colonel D’Hubert uncovered a couple of mats of the
sort Russian peasants use to line the sides of their carts with. These,
beaten free of frozen snow, bent about his elegant person and fastened
solidly round his waist, made a bell-shaped nether garment, a sort of
stiff petticoat, which rendered Colonel D’Hubert a perfectly decent, but
a much more noticeable figure than before.

Thus accoutred, he continued to retreat, never doubting of his personal
escape, but full of other misgivings. The early buoyancy of his belief
in the future was destroyed. If the road of glory led through such
unforeseen passages, he asked himself–for he was reflective–whether
the guide was altogether trustworthy. It was a patriotic sadness, not
unmingled with some personal concern, and quite unlike the unreasoning
indignation against men and things nursed by Colonel Feraud. Recruiting
his strength in a little German town for three weeks, Colonel D’Hubert
was surprised to discover within himself a love of repose. His returning
vigour was strangely pacific in its aspirations. He meditated silently
upon this bizarre change of mood. No doubt many of his brother officers
of field rank went through the same moral experience. But these were
not the times to talk of it. In one of his letters home Colonel D’Hubert
wrote, “All your plans, my dear Leonie, for marrying me to the charming
girl you have discovered in your neighbourhood, seem farther off than
ever. Peace is not yet. Europe wants another lesson. It will be a hard
task for us, but it shall be done, because the Emperor is invincible.”

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Thus wrote Colonel D ‘Hubert from Pomerania to his married sister
Leonie, settled in the south of France. And so far the sentiments
expressed would not have been disowned by Colonel Feraud, who wrote
no letters to anybody, whose father had been in life an illiterate
blacksmith, who had no sister or brother, and whom no one desired
ardently to pair off for a life of peace with a charming young girl.
But Colonel D ‘Hubert’s letter contained also some philosophical
generalities upon the uncertainty of all personal hopes, when bound up
entirely with the prestigious fortune of one incomparably great it is
true, yet still remaining but a man in his greatness. This view would
have appeared rank heresy to Colonel Feraud. Some melancholy forebodings
of a military kind, expressed cautiously, would have been pronounced as
nothing short of high treason by Colonel Feraud. But Leonie, the sister
of Colonel D’Hubert, read them with profound satisfaction, and, folding
the letter thoughtfully, remarked to herself that “Armand was likely to
prove eventually a sensible fellow.” Since her marriage into a Southern
family she had become a convinced believer in the return of the
legitimate king. Hopeful and anxious she offered prayers night and
morning, and burnt candles in churches for the safety and prosperity of
her brother.

She had every reason to suppose that her prayers were heard. Colonel
D’Hubert passed through Lutzen, Bautzen, and Leipsic losing no limb, and
acquiring additional reputation. Adapting his conduct to the needs of
that desperate time, he had never voiced his misgivings. He concealed
them under a cheerful courtesy of such pleasant character that people
were inclined to ask themselves with wonder whether Colonel D’Hubert
was aware of any disasters. Not only his manners, but even his glances
remained untroubled. The steady amenity of his blue eyes disconcerted
all grumblers, and made despair itself pause.

This bearing was remarked favourably by the Emperor himself; for Colonel
D’Hubert, attached now to the Major-General’s staff, came on several
occasions under the imperial eye. But it exasperated the higher strung
nature of Colonel Feraud. Passing through Magdeburg on service,
this last allowed himself, while seated gloomily at dinner with the
Commandant de Place, to say of his life-long adversary: “This man does
not love the Emperor,” and his words were received by the other guests
in profound silence. Colonel Feraud, troubled in his conscience at
the atrocity of the aspersion, felt the need to back it up by a good
argument. “I ought to know him,” he cried, adding some oaths. “One
studies one’s adversary. I have met him on the ground half a dozen
times, as all the army knows. What more do you want? If that isn’t
opportunity enough for any fool to size up his man, may the devil take
me if I can tell what is.” And he looked around the table, obstinate and

Later on in Paris, while extremely busy reorganizing his regiment,
Colonel Feraud learned that Colonel D’Hubert had been made a general. He
glared at his informant incredulously, then folded his arms and turned
away muttering, “Nothing surprises me on the part of that man.”

And aloud he added, speaking over his shoulder, “You would oblige me
greatly by telling General D’Hubert at the first opportunity that his
advancement saves him for a time from a pretty hot encounter. I was only
waiting for him to turn up here.”

The other officer remonstrated.

“Could you think of it, Colonel Feraud, at this time, when every life
should be consecrated to the glory and safety of France?”

But the strain of unhappiness caused by military reverses had spoiled
Colonel Feraud’s character. Like many other men, he was rendered wicked
by misfortune.

“I cannot consider General D’Hubert’s existence of any account either
for the glory or safety of France,” he snapped viciously. “You don’t
pretend, perhaps, to know him better than I do–I who have met him half
a dozen times on the ground–do you?”

His interlocutor, a young man, was silenced. Colonel Feraud walked up
and down the room.

“This is not the time to mince matters,” he said. “I can’t believe that
that man ever loved the Emperor. He picked up his general’s stars under
the boots of Marshal Berthier. Very well. I’ll get mine in another
fashion, and then we shall settle this business which has been dragging
on too long.”

General D’Hubert, informed indirectly of Colonel Feraud’s attitude, made
a gesture as if to put aside an importunate person. His thoughts were
solicited by graver cares. He had had no time to go and see his family.
His sister, whose royalist hopes were rising higher every day, though
proud of her brother, regretted his recent advancement in a measure,
because it put on him a prominent mark of the usurper’s favour, which
later on could have an adverse influence upon his career. He wrote
to her that no one but an inveterate enemy could say he had got his
promotion by favour. As to his career, he assured her that he looked no
farther forward into the future than the next battlefield.

Beginning the campaign of France in this dogged spirit, General D’Hubert
was wounded on the second day of the battle under Laon. While being
carried off the field he heard that Colonel Feraud, promoted this moment
to general, had been sent to replace him at the head of his brigade.
He cursed his luck impulsively, not being able at the first glance to
discern all the advantages of a nasty wound. And yet it was by this
heroic method that Providence was shaping his future. Travelling slowly
south to his sister’s country home under the care of a trusty old
servant, General D’Hubert was spared the humiliating contacts and the
perplexities of conduct which assailed the men of Napoleonic empire at
the moment of its downfall. Lying in his bed, with the windows of his
room open wide to the sunshine of Provence, he perceived the undisguised
aspect of the blessing conveyed by that jagged fragment of a Prussian
shell, which, killing his horse and ripping open his thigh, saved him
from an active conflict with his conscience. After the last fourteen
years spent sword in hand in the saddle, and with the sense of his duty
done to the very end, General D’Hubert found resignation an easy virtue.
His sister was delighted with his reasonableness. “I leave myself
altogether in your hands, my dear Leonie,” he had said to her.

He was still laid up when, the credit of his brother-in-law’s family
being exerted on his behalf, he received from the royal government not
only the confirmation of his rank, but the assurance of being retained
on the active list. To this was added an unlimited convalescent leave.
The unfavourable opinion entertained of him in Bonapartist circles,
though it rested on nothing more solid than the unsupported
pronouncement of General Feraud, was directly responsible for General
D’Hubert’s retention on the active list. As to General Feraud, his rank
was confirmed, too. It was more than he dared to expect; but Marshal
Soult, then Minister of War to the restored king, was partial to
officers who had served in Spain. Only not even the marshal’s protection
could secure for him active employment. He remained irreconcilable,
idle, and sinister. He sought in obscure restaurants the company of
other half-pay officers who cherished dingy but glorious old tricolour
cockades in their breast-pockets, and buttoned with the forbidden eagle
buttons their shabby uniforms, declaring themselves too poor to afford
the expense of the prescribed change.

The triumphant return from Elba, an historical fact as marvellous and
incredible as the exploits of some mythological demi-god, found General
D’Hubert still quite unable to sit a horse. Neither could he walk very
well. These disabilities, which Madame Leonie accounted most lucky,
helped to keep her brother out of all possible mischief. His frame
of mind at that time, she noted with dismay, became very far from
reasonable. This general officer, still menaced by the loss of a limb,
was discovered one night in the stables of the chateau by a groom,
who, seeing a light, raised an alarm of thieves. His crutch was lying
half-buried in the straw of the litter, and the general was hopping on
one leg in a loose box around a snorting horse he was trying to saddle.
Such were the effects of imperial magic upon a calm temperament and
a pondered mind. Beset in the light of stable lanterns, by the tears,
entreaties, indignation, remonstrances and reproaches of his family, he
got out of the difficult situation by fainting away there and then in
the arms of his nearest relatives, and was carried off to bed. Before he
got out of it again, the second reign of Napoleon, the Hundred Days of
feverish agitation and supreme effort, passed away like a terrifying
dream. The tragic year 1815, begun in the trouble and unrest of
consciences, was ending in vengeful proscriptions.

How General Feraud escaped the clutches of the Special Commission and
the last offices of a firing squad he never knew himself. It was partly
due to the subordinate position he was assigned during the Hundred Days.
The Emperor had never given him active command, but had kept him busy
at the cavalry depot in Paris, mounting and despatching hastily drilled
troopers into the field. Considering this task as unworthy of his
abilities, he had discharged it with no offensively noticeable zeal; but
for the greater part he was saved from the excesses of Royalist reaction
by the interference of General D’Hubert.

This last, still on convalescent leave, but able now to travel, had been
despatched by his sister to Paris to present himself to his legitimate
sovereign. As no one in the capital could possibly know anything of the
episode in the stable he was received there with distinction. Military
to the very bottom of his soul, the prospect of rising in his profession
consoled him from finding himself the butt of Bonapartist malevolence,
which pursued him with a persistence he could not account for. All the
rancour of that embittered and persecuted party pointed to him as the
man who had never loved the Emperor–a sort of monster essentially worse
than a mere betrayer.

General D’Hubert shrugged his shoulders without anger at this ferocious
prejudice. Rejected by his old friends, and mistrusting profoundly the
advances of Royalist society, the young and handsome general (he was
barely forty) adopted a manner of cold, punctilious courtesy, which
at the merest shadow of an intended slight passed easily into harsh
haughtiness. Thus prepared, General D’Hubert went about his affairs in
Paris feeling inwardly very happy with the peculiar uplifting happiness
of a man very much in love. The charming girl looked out by his sister
had come upon the scene, and had conquered him in the thorough manner
in which a young girl by merely existing in his sight can make a man of
forty her own. They were going to be married as soon as General D’Hubert
had obtained his official nomination to a promised command.

One afternoon, sitting on the terrasse of the Cafe Tortoni, General
D’Hubert learned from the conversation of two strangers occupying
a table near his own, that General Feraud, included in the batch of
superior officers arrested after the second return of the king, was in
danger of passing before the Special Commission. Living all his spare
moments, as is frequently the case with expectant lovers, a day in
advance of reality, and in a state of bestarred hallucination, it
required nothing less than the name of his perpetual antagonist
pronounced in a loud voice to call the youngest of Napoleon’s generals
away from the mental contemplation of his betrothed. He looked round.
The strangers wore civilian clothes. Lean and weather-beaten, lolling
back in their chairs, they scowled at people with moody and defiant
abstraction from under their hats pulled low over their eyes. It was not
difficult to recognize them for two of the compulsorily retired officers
of the Old Guard. As from bravado or carelessness they chose to speak in
loud tones, General D’Hubert, who saw no reason why he should change his
seat, heard every word. They did not seem to be the personal friends of
General Feraud. His name came up amongst others. Hearing it repeated,
General D’Hubert’s tender anticipations of a domestic future adorned
with a woman’s grace were traversed by the harsh regret of his warlike
past, of that one long, intoxicating clash of arms, unique in the
magnitude of its glory and disaster–the marvellous work and the special
possession of his own generation. He felt an irrational tenderness
towards his old adversary and appreciated emotionally the murderous
absurdity their encounter had introduced into his life. It was like an
additional pinch of spice in a hot dish. He remembered the flavour with
sudden melancholy. He would never taste it again. It was all over. “I
fancy it was being left lying in the garden that had exasperated him so
against me from the first,” he thought, indulgently.

The two strangers at the next table had fallen silent after the third
mention of General Feraud’s name. Presently the elder of the two,
speaking again in a bitter tone, affirmed that General Feraud’s account
was settled. And why? Simply because he was not like some bigwigs who
loved only themselves. The Royalists knew they could never make anything
of him. He loved The Other too well.

The Other was the Man of St. Helena. The two officers nodded and touched
glasses before they drank to an impossible return. Then the same who
had spoken before, remarked with a sardonic laugh, “His adversary showed
more cleverness.”

“What adversary?” asked the younger, as if puzzled.

“Don’t you know? They were two hussars. At each promotion they fought a
duel. Haven’t you heard of the duel going on ever since 1801?”

The other had heard of the duel, of course. Now he understood the
allusion. General Baron D’Hubert would be able now to enjoy his fat
king’s favour in peace.

“Much good may it do to him,” mumbled the elder. “They were both brave
men. I never saw this D’Hubert–a sort of intriguing dandy, I am told.
But I can well believe what I’ve heard Feraud say of him–that he never
loved the Emperor.”

They rose and went away.

General D’Hubert experienced the horror of a somnambulist who wakes
up from a complacent dream of activity to find himself walking on a
quagmire. A profound disgust of the ground on which he was making his
way overcame him. Even the image of the charming girl was swept from
his view in the flood of moral distress. Everything he had ever been
or hoped to be would taste of bitter ignominy unless he could manage to
save General Feraud from the fate which threatened so many braves. Under
the impulse of this almost morbid need to attend to the safety of his
adversary, General D’Hubert worked so well with hands and feet (as the
French saying is), that in less than twenty-four hours he found means of
obtaining an extraordinary private audience from the Minister of Police.

General Baron D’Hubert was shown in suddenly without preliminaries. In
the dusk of the Minister’s cabinet, behind the forms of writing-desk,
chairs, and tables, between two bunches of wax candles blazing in
sconces, he beheld a figure in a gorgeous coat posturing before a tall
mirror. The old conventionnel Fouche, Senator of the Empire, traitor
to every man, to every principle and motive of human conduct. Duke of
Otranto, and the wily artizan of the second Restoration, was trying
the fit of a court suit in which his young and accomplished fiancee had
declared her intention to have his portrait painted on porcelain. It was
a caprice, a charming fancy which the first Minister of Police of the
second Restoration was anxious to gratify. For that man, often compared
in wiliness of conduct to a fox, but whose ethical side could be
worthily symbolized by nothing less emphatic than a skunk, was as much
possessed by his love as General D’Hubert himself.

Startled to be discovered thus by the blunder of a servant, he met this
little vexation with the characteristic impudence which had served
his turn so well in the endless intrigues of his self-seeking career.
Without altering his attitude a hair’s-breadth, one leg in a silk
stocking advanced, his head twisted over his left shoulder, he
called out calmly, “This way, General. Pray approach. Well? I am all

While General D’Hubert, ill at ease as if one of his own little
weaknesses had been exposed, presented his request as shortly as
possible, the Duke of Otranto went on feeling the fit of his collar,
settling the lapels before the glass, and buckling his back in an effort
to behold the set of the gold embroidered coat-skirts behind. His still
face, his attentive eyes, could not have expressed a more complete
interest in those matters if he had been alone.

“Exclude from the operations of the Special Court a certain Feraud,
Gabriel Florian, General of brigade of the promotion of 1814?” he
repeated, in a slightly wondering tone, and then turned away from the
glass. “Why exclude him precisely?”

“I am surprised that your Excellency, so competent in the evaluation of
men of his time, should have thought worth while to have that name put
down on the list.”

“A rabid Bonapartist!”

“So is every grenadier and every trooper of the army, as your Excellency
well knows. And the individuality of General Feraud can have no more
weight than that of any casual grenadier. He is a man of no mental
grasp, of no capacity whatever. It is inconceivable that he should ever
have any influence.”

“He has a well-hung tongue, though,” interjected Fouche.

“Noisy, I admit, but not dangerous.”

“I will not dispute with you. I know next to nothing of him. Hardly his
name, in fact.”

“And yet your Excellency has the presidency of the Commission charged
by the king to point out those who were to be tried,” said General
D’Hubert, with an emphasis which did not miss the minister’s ear.

“Yes, General,” he said, walking away into the dark part of the vast
room, and throwing himself into a deep armchair that swallowed him up,
all but the soft gleam of gold embroideries and the pallid patch of the
face–“yes, General. Take this chair there.”

General D’Hubert sat down.

“Yes, General,” continued the arch-master in the arts of intrigue
and betrayals, whose duplicity, as if at times intolerable to his
self-knowledge, found relief in bursts of cynical openness. “I did
hurry on the formation of the proscribing Commission, and I took its
presidency. And do you know why? Simply from fear that if I did not
take it quickly into my hands my own name would head the list of the
proscribed. Such are the times in which we live. But I am minister of
the king yet, and I ask you plainly why I should take the name of this
obscure Feraud off the list? You wonder how his name got there! Is it
possible that you should know men so little? My dear General, at the
very first sitting of the Commission names poured on us like rain off
the roof of the Tuileries. Names! We had our choice of thousands. How do
you know that the name of this Feraud, whose life or death don’t matter
to France, does not keep out some other name?”

The voice out of the armchair stopped. Opposite General D’Hubert sat
still, shadowy and silent. Only his sabre clinked slightly. The voice in
the armchair began again. “And we must try to satisfy the exigencies
of the Allied Sovereigns, too. The Prince de Talleyrand told me only
yesterday that Nesselrode had informed him officially of His Majesty the
Emperor Alexander’s dissatisfaction at the small number of examples the
Government of the king intends to make–especially amongst military men.
I tell you this confidentially.”

“Upon my word!” broke out General D’Hubert, speaking through his teeth,
“if your Excellency deigns to favour me with any more confidential
information I don’t know what I will do. It’s enough to break one’s
sword over one’s knee, and fling the pieces. . . .”

“What government you imagined yourself to be serving?” interrupted the
minister, sharply.

After a short pause the crestfallen voice of General D’Hubert answered,
“The Government of France.”

“That’s paying your conscience off with mere words, General. The truth
is that you are serving a government of returned exiles, of men who have
been without country for twenty years. Of men also who have just got
over a very bad and humiliating fright. . . . Have no illusions on that

The Duke of Otranto ceased. He had relieved himself, and had attained
his object of stripping some self-respect off that man who had
inconveniently discovered him posturing in a gold-embroidered court
costume before a mirror. But they were a hot-headed lot in the army; it
occurred to him that it would be inconvenient if a well-disposed general
officer, received in audience on the recommendation of one of the
Princes, were to do something rashly scandalous directly after a private
interview with the minister. In a changed tone he put a question to the
point: “Your relation–this Feraud?”

“No. No relation at all.”

“Intimate friend?”

“Intimate . . . yes. There is between us an intimate connection of a
nature which makes it a point of honour with me to try . . .”

The minister rang a bell without waiting for the end of the phrase.
When the servant had gone out, after bringing in a pair of heavy silver
candelabra for the writing-desk, the Duke of Otranto rose, his breast
glistening all over with gold in the strong light, and taking a piece of
paper out of a drawer, held it in his hand ostentatiously while he said
with persuasive gentleness: “You must not speak of breaking your sword
across your knee, General. Perhaps you would never get another. The
Emperor will not return this time. . . . Diable d’homme! There was just
a moment, here in Paris, soon after Waterloo, when he frightened me.
It looked as though he were ready to begin all over again. Luckily one
never does begin all over again, really. You must not think of breaking
your sword, General.”

General D’Hubert, looking on the ground, moved slightly his hand in a
hopeless gesture of renunciation. The Minister of Police turned his eyes
away from him, and scanned deliberately the paper he had been holding up
all the time.

“There are only twenty general officers selected to be made an example
of. Twenty. A round number. And let’s see, Feraud. . . . Ah, he’s there.
Gabriel Florian. Parfaitement. That’s your man. Well, there will be only
nineteen examples made now.”

General D’Hubert stood up feeling as though he had gone through an
infectious illness. “I must beg your Excellency to keep my interference
a profound secret. I attach the greatest importance to his never
learning . . .”

“Who is going to inform him, I should like to know?” said Fouche,
raising his eyes curiously to General D’Hubert’s tense, set face. “Take
one of these pens, and run it through the name yourself. This is the
only list in existence. If you are careful to take up enough ink no one
will be able to tell what was the name struck out. But, par exemple, I
am not responsible for what Clarke will do with him afterwards. If he
persists in being rabid he will be ordered by the Minister of War to
reside in some provincial town under the supervision of the police.”

A few days later General D’Hubert was saying to his sister, after the
first greetings had been got over: “Ah, my dear Leonie! it seemed to me
I couldn’t get away from Paris quick enough.”

“Effect of love,” she suggested, with a malicious smile.

“And horror,” added General D’Hubert, with profound seriousness. “I have
nearly died there of . . . of nausea.”

His face was contracted with disgust. And as his sister looked at him
attentively he continued, “I have had to see Fouche. I have had an
audience. I have been in his cabinet. There remains with one, who had
the misfortune to breathe the air of the same room with that man, a
sense of diminished dignity, an uneasy feeling of being not so clean,
after all, as one hoped one was. . . . But you can’t understand.”

She nodded quickly several times. She understood very well, on the
contrary. She knew her brother thoroughly, and liked him as he was.
Moreover, the scorn and loathing of mankind were the lot of the Jacobin
Fouche, who, exploiting for his own advantage every weakness, every
virtue, every generous illusion of mankind, made dupes of his whole
generation, and died obscurely as Duke of Otranto.

“My dear Armand,” she said, compassionately, “what could you want from
that man?”

“Nothing less than a life,” answered General D’Hubert. “And I’ve got
it. It had to be done. But I feel yet as if I could never forgive the
necessity to the man I had to save.”

General Feraud, totally unable (as is the case with most of us) to
comprehend what was happening to him, received the Minister of War’s
order to proceed at once to a small town of Central France with feelings
whose natural expression consisted in a fierce rolling of the eye and
savage grinding of the teeth. The passing away of the state of war,
the only condition of society he had ever known, the horrible view of a
world at peace, frightened him. He went away to his little town firmly
convinced that this could not last. There he was informed of his
retirement from the army, and that his pension (calculated on the
scale of a colonel’s rank) was made dependent on the correctness of his
conduct, and on the good reports of the police. No longer in the army!
He felt suddenly strange to the earth, like a disembodied spirit. It
was impossible to exist. But at first he reacted from sheer incredulity.
This could not be. He waited for thunder, earthquakes, natural
cataclysms; but nothing happened. The leaden weight of an irremediable
idleness descended upon General Feraud, who having no resources within
himself sank into a state of awe-inspiring hebetude. He haunted the
streets of the little town, gazing before him with lacklustre eyes,
disregarding the hats raised on his passage; and people, nudging each
other as he went by, whispered, “That’s poor General Feraud. His heart
is broken. Behold how he loved the Emperor.”

The other living wreckage of Napoleonic tempest clustered round General
Feraud with infinite respect. He, himself, imagined his soul to be
crushed by grief. He suffered from quickly succeeding impulses to weep,
to howl, to bite his fists till blood came, to spend days on his bed
with his head thrust under the pillow; but these arose from sheer ennui,
from the anguish of an immense, indescribable, inconceivable boredom.
His mental inability to grasp the hopeless nature of his case as a whole
saved him from suicide. He never even thought of it once. He thought
of nothing. But his appetite abandoned him, and the difficulty he
experienced to express the overwhelming nature of his feelings (the most
furious swearing could do no justice to it) induced gradually a habit of
silence–a sort of death to a southern temperament.

Great, therefore, was the sensation amongst the anciens militaires
frequenting a certain little cafe; full of flies when one stuffy
afternoon “that poor General Feraud” let out suddenly a volley of
formidable curses.

He had been sitting quietly in his own privileged corner looking through
the Paris gazettes with just as much interest as a condemned man on the
eve of execution could be expected to show in the news of the day. “I’ll
find out presently that I am alive yet,” he declared, in a dogmatic
tone. “However, this is a private affair. An old affair of honor. Bah!
Our honor does not matter. Here we are driven off with a split ear like
a lot of cast troop horses–good only for a knacker’s yard. But it
would be like striking a blow for the Emperor. . . . Messieurs, I shall
require the assistance of two of you.”

Every man moved forward. General Feraud, deeply touched by this
demonstration, called with visible emotion upon the one-eyed veteran
cuirassier and the officer of the Chasseurs a Cheval who had left the
tip of his nose in Russia. He excused his choice to the others.

“A cavalry affair this–you know.”

He was answered with a varied chorus of “Parfaitement, mon General
. . . . C’est juste. . . . Parbleu, c’est connu. . . .” Everybody was
satisfied. The three left the cafe together, followed by cries of “Bonne

Outside they linked arms, the general in the middle. The three rusty
cocked hats worn en bataille with a sinister forward slant barred the
narrow street nearly right across. The overheated little town of grey
stones and red tiles was drowsing away its provincial afternoon under
a blue sky. The loud blows of a cooper hooping a cask reverberated
regularly between the houses. The general dragged his left foot a little
in the shade of the walls.

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“This damned winter of 1813 has got into my bones for good. Never
mind. We must take pistols, that’s all. A little lumbago. We must have
pistols. He’s game for my bag. My eyes are as keen as ever. You should
have seen me in Russia picking off the dodging Cossacks with a beastly
old infantry musket. I have a natural gift for firearms.”

In this strain General Feraud ran on, holding up his head, with owlish
eyes and rapacious beak. A mere fighter all his life, a cavalry man, a
sabreur, he conceived war with the utmost simplicity, as, in the main, a
massed lot of personal contests, a sort of gregarious dueling. And here
he had in hand a war of his own. He revived. The shadow of peace
passed away from him like the shadow of death. It was the marvelous
resurrection of the named Feraud, Gabriel Florian, engage volontaire
of 1793, General of 1814, buried without ceremony by means of a service
order signed by the War Minister of the Second Restoration.

No man succeeds in everything he undertakes. In that sense we are all
failures. The great point is not to fail in ordering and sustaining the
effort of our life. In this matter vanity is what leads us astray. It
hurries us into situations from which we must come out damaged; whereas
pride is our safeguard, by the reserve it imposes on the choice of our
endeavor as much as by the virtue of its sustaining power.

General D’Hubert was proud and reserved. He had not been damaged by his
casual love affairs, successful or otherwise. In his war-scarred body
his heart at forty remained unscratched. Entering with reserve into his
sister’s matrimonial plans, he had felt himself falling irremediably in
love as one falls off a roof. He was too proud to be frightened. Indeed,
the sensation was too delightful to be alarming.

The inexperience of a man of forty is a much more serious thing than
the inexperience of a youth of twenty, for it is not helped out by the
rashness of hot blood. The girl was mysterious, as young girls are
by the mere effect of their guarded ingenuity; and to him the
mysteriousness of that young girl appeared exceptional and fascinating.
But there was nothing mysterious about the arrangements of the match
which Madame Leonie had promoted. There was nothing peculiar, either. It
was a very appropriate match, commending itself extremely to the young
lady’s mother (the father was dead) and tolerable to the young lady’s
uncle–an old émigré lately returned from Germany, and pervading, cane
in hand, a lean ghost of the ancient regime, the garden walks of the
young lady’s ancestral home.

General D’Hubert was not the man to be satisfied merely with the woman
and the fortune–when it came to the point. His pride (and pride aims
always at true success) would be satisfied with nothing short of love.
But as true pride excludes vanity, he could not imagine any reason why
this mysterious creature with deep and brilliant eyes of a violet color
should have any feeling for him warmer than indifference. The young lady
(her name was Adele) baffled every attempt at a clear understanding on
that point. It is true that the attempts were clumsy and made timidly,
because by then General D’Hubert had become acutely aware of the number
of his years, of his wounds, of his many moral imperfections, of his
secret unworthiness–and had incidentally learned by experience the
meaning of the word funk. As far as he could make out she seemed to
imply that, with an unbounded confidence in her mother’s affection and
sagacity, she felt no insurmountable dislike for the person of General
D’Hubert; and that this was quite sufficient for a well-brought-up young
lady to begin married life upon. This view hurt and tormented the pride
of General D’Hubert. And yet he asked himself, with a sort of sweet
despair, what more could he expect? She had a quiet and luminous
forehead. Her violet eyes laughed while the lines of her lips and chin
remained composed in admirable gravity. All this was set off by such
a glorious mass of fair hair, by a complexion so marvelous, by such
a grace of expression, that General D’Hubert really never found the
opportunity to examine with sufficient detachment the lofty exigencies
of his pride. In fact, he became shy of that line of inquiry since it
had led once or twice to a crisis of solitary passion in which it was
borne upon him that he loved her enough to kill her rather than lose
her. From such passages, not unknown to men of forty, he would come out
broken, exhausted, remorseful, a little dismayed. He derived, however,
considerable comfort from the quietist practice of sitting now and then
half the night by an open window and meditating upon the wonder of
her existence, like a believer lost in the mystic contemplation of his

It must not be supposed that all these variations of his inward state
were made manifest to the world. General D ‘Hubert found no difficulty
in appearing wreathed in smiles. Because, in fact, he was very happy.
He followed the established rules of his condition, sending over flowers
(from his sister’s garden and hot-houses) early every morning, and a
little later following himself to lunch with his intended, her mother,
and her emigre uncle. The middle of the day was spent in strolling or
sitting in the shade. A watchful deference, trembling on the verge of
tenderness was the note of their intercourse on his side–with a playful
turn of the phrase concealing the profound trouble of his whole being
caused by her inaccessible nearness. Late in the afternoon General D
‘Hubert walked home between the fields of vines, sometimes intensely
miserable, sometimes supremely happy, sometimes pensively sad; but
always feeling a special intensity of existence, that elation common to
artists, poets, and lovers–to men haunted by a great passion, a noble
thought, or a new vision of plastic beauty.

The outward world at that time did not exist with any special
distinctness for General D’Hubert. One evening, however, crossing a
ridge from which he could see both houses, General D’Hubert became aware
of two figures far down the road. The day had been divine. The festal
decoration of the inflamed sky lent a gentle glow to the sober tints
of the southern land. The grey rocks, the brown fields, the purple,
undulating distances harmonized in luminous accord, exhaled already
the scents of the evening. The two figures down the road presented
themselves like two rigid and wooden silhouettes all black on the ribbon
of white dust. General D’Hubert made out the long, straight, military
capotes buttoned closely right up to the black stocks, the cocked hats,
the lean, carven, brown countenances–old soldiers–vieilles moustaches!
The taller of the two had a black patch over one eye; the other’s hard,
dry countenance presented some bizarre, disquieting peculiarity, which
on nearer approach proved to be the absence of the tip of the nose.
Lifting their hands with one movement to salute the slightly lame
civilian walking with a thick stick, they inquired for the house where
the General Baron D’Hubert lived, and what was the best way to get
speech with him quietly.

“If you think this quiet enough,” said General D’Hubert, looking round
at the vine-fields, framed in purple lines, and dominated by the nest of
grey and drab walls of a village clustering around the top of a conical
hill, so that the blunt church tower seemed but the shape of a crowning
rock–“if you think this spot quiet enough, you can speak to him
at once. And I beg you, comrades, to speak openly, with perfect

They stepped back at this, and raised again their hands to their
hats with marked ceremoniousness. Then the one with the chipped nose,
speaking for both, remarked that the matter was confidential enough, and
to be arranged discreetly. Their general quarters were established in
that village over there, where the infernal clodhoppers–damn their
false, Royalist hearts!–looked remarkably cross-eyed at three
unassuming military men. For the present he should only ask for the name
of General D’Hubert’s friends.

“What friends?” said the astonished General D’Hubert, completely off the
track. “I am staying with my brother-in-law over there.”

“Well, he will do for one,” said the chipped veteran.

“We’re the friends of General Feraud,” interjected the other, who had
kept silent till then, only glowering with his one eye at the man who
had never loved the Emperor. That was something to look at. For even
the gold-laced Judases who had sold him to the English, the marshals
and princes, had loved him at some time or other. But this man had never
loved the Emperor. General Feraud had said so distinctly.

General D’Hubert felt an inward blow in his chest. For an infinitesimal
fraction of a second it was as if the spinning of the earth had become
perceptible with an awful, slight rustle in the eternal stillness
of space. But this noise of blood in his ears passed off at once.
Involuntarily he murmured, “Feraud! I had forgotten his existence.”

“He’s existing at present, very uncomfortably, it is true, in the
infamous inn of that nest of savages up there,” said the one-eyed
cuirassier, drily. “We arrived in your parts an hour ago on post horses.
He’s awaiting our return with impatience. There is hurry, you know.
The General has broken the ministerial order to obtain from you the
satisfaction he’s entitled to by the laws of honor, and naturally he’s
anxious to have it all over before the gendarmerie gets on his scent.”

The other elucidated the idea a little further. “Get back on the
quiet–you understand? Phitt! No one the wiser. We have broken out, too.
Your friend the king would be glad to cut off our scurvy pittances at
the first chance. It’s a risk. But honor before everything.”

General D’Hubert had recovered his powers of speech. “So you come here
like this along the road to invite me to a throat-cutting match with
that–that . . .” A laughing sort of rage took possession of him. “Ha!
ha! ha! ha!”

His fists on his hips, he roared without restraint, while they stood
before him lank and straight, as though they had been shot up with a
snap through a trap door in the ground. Only four-and-twenty months ago
the masters of Europe, they had already the air of antique ghosts,
they seemed less substantial in their faded coats than their own
narrow shadows falling so black across the white road: the military
and grotesque shadows of twenty years of war and conquests. They had an
outlandish appearance of two imperturbable bonzes of the religion of
the sword. And General D’Hubert, also one of the ex-masters of Europe,
laughed at these serious phantoms standing in his way.

Said one, indicating the laughing General with a jerk of the head: “A
merry companion, that.”

“There are some of us that haven’t smiled from the day The Other went
away,” remarked his comrade.

A violent impulse to set upon and beat those unsubstantial wraiths to
the ground frightened General D’Hubert. He ceased laughing suddenly.
His desire now was to get rid of them, to get them away from his sight
quickly before he lost control of himself. He wondered at the fury
he felt rising in his breast. But he had no time to look into that
peculiarity just then.

“I understand your wish to be done with me as quickly as possible. Don’t
let us waste time in empty ceremonies. Do you see that wood there at the
foot of that slope? Yes, the wood of pines. Let us meet there to-morrow
at sunrise. I will bring with me my sword or my pistols, or both if you

The seconds of General Feraud looked at each other.

“Pistols, General,” said the cuirassier.

“So be it. Au revoir–to-morrow morning. Till then let me advise you to
keep close if you don’t want the gendarmerie making inquiries about you
before it gets dark. Strangers are rare in this part of the country.”

They saluted in silence. General D’Hubert, turning his back on their
retreating forms, stood still in the middle of the road for a long time,
biting his lower lip and looking on the ground. Then he began to walk
straight before him, thus retracing his steps till he found himself
before the park gate of his intended’s house. Dusk had fallen.
Motionless he stared through the bars at the front of the house,
gleaming clear beyond the thickets and trees. Footsteps scrunched on
the gravel, and presently a tall stooping shape emerged from the lateral
alley following the inner side of the park wall.

Le Chevalier de Valmassigue, uncle of the adorable Adele, ex-brigadier
in the army of the Princes, bookbinder in Altona, afterwards shoemaker
(with a great reputation for elegance in the fit of ladies’ shoes) in
another small German town, wore silk stockings on his lean shanks, low
shoes with silver buckles, a brocaded waistcoat. A long-skirted coat,
a la francaise, covered loosely his thin, bowed back. A small
three-cornered hat rested on a lot of powdered hair, tied in a queue.

“Monsieur le Chevalier,” called General D’Hubert, softly.

“What? You here again, mon ami? Have you forgotten something?”

“By heavens! that’s just it. I have forgotten something. I am come to
tell you of it. No–outside. Behind this wall. It’s too ghastly a thing
to be let in at all where she lives.”

The Chevalier came out at once with that benevolent resignation some
old people display towards the fugue of youth. Older by a quarter of a
century than General D’Hubert, he looked upon him in the secret of
his heart as a rather troublesome youngster in love. He had heard his
enigmatical words very well, but attached no undue importance to what a
mere man of forty so hard hit was likely to do or say. The turn of mind
of the generation of Frenchmen grown up during the years of his exile
was almost unintelligible to him. Their sentiments appeared to him
unduly violent, lacking fineness and measure, their language needlessly
exaggerated. He joined calmly the General on the road, and they made a
few steps in silence, the General trying to master his agitation, and
get proper control of his voice.

“It is perfectly true; I forgot something. I forgot till half an hour
ago that I had an urgent affair of honor on my hands. It’s incredible,
but it is so!”

All was still for a moment. Then in the profound evening silence of the
countryside the clear, aged voice of the Chevalier was heard trembling
slightly: “Monsieur! That’s an indignity.”

It was his first thought. The girl born during his exile, the posthumous
daughter of his poor brother murdered by a band of Jacobins, had grown
since his return very dear to his old heart, which had been starving on
mere memories of affection for so many years. “It is an inconceivable
thing, I say! A man settles such affairs before he thinks of asking for
a young girl’s hand. Why! If you had forgotten for ten days longer, you
would have been married before your memory returned to you. In my time
men did not forget such things–nor yet what is due to the feelings
of an innocent young woman. If I did not respect them myself, I would
qualify your conduct in a way which you would not like.”

General D’Hubert relieved himself frankly by a groan. “Don’t let that
consideration prevent you. You run no risk of offending her mortally.”

But the old man paid no attention to this lover’s nonsense. It’s
doubtful whether he even heard. “What is it?” he asked. “What’s the
nature of . . . ?” “Call it a youthful folly, Monsieur le Chevalier. An
inconceivable, incredible result of . . .” He stopped short. “He will
never believe the story,” he thought. “He will only think I am taking
him for a fool, and get offended.” General D’Hubert spoke up again:
“Yes, originating in youthful folly, it has become . . .”

The Chevalier interrupted: “Well, then it must be arranged.”


“Yes, no matter at what cost to your amour proper. You should have
remembered you were engaged. You forgot that, too, I suppose. And then
you go and forget your quarrel. It’s the most hopeless exhibition of
levity I ever heard of.”

“Good heavens, Monsieur! You don’t imagine I have been picking up this
quarrel last time I was in Paris, or anything of the sort, do you?”

“Eh! What matters the precise date of your insane conduct,” exclaimed
the Chevalier, testily. “The principal thing is to arrange it.”

Noticing General D’Hubert getting restive and trying to place a word,
the old émigré raised his hand, and added with dignity, “I’ve been a
soldier, too. I would never dare suggest a doubtful step to the man
whose name my niece is to bear. I tell you that entre galants hommes an
affair can always be arranged.”

“But saperiotte, Monsieur le Chevalier, it’s fifteen or sixteen years
ago. I was a lieutenant of hussars then.”

The old Chevalier seemed confounded by the vehemently despairing tone of
this information. “You were a lieutenant of hussars sixteen years ago,”
he mumbled in a dazed manner.

“Why, yes! You did not suppose I was made a general in my cradle like a
royal prince.”

In the deepening purple twilight of the fields spread with vine leaves,
backed by a low band of somber crimson in the west, the voice of the old
ex-officer in the army of the Princes sounded collected, punctiliously

“Do I dream? Is this a pleasantry? Or am I to understand that you have
been hatching an affair of honor for sixteen years?”

“It has clung to me for that length of time. That is my precise meaning.
The quarrel itself is not to be explained easily. We met on the ground
several times during that time, of course.”

“What manners! What horrible perversion of manliness! Nothing can
account for such inhumanity but the sanguinary madness of the Revolution
which has tainted a whole generation,” mused the returned emigre in a
low tone. “Who’s your adversary?” he asked a little louder.

“My adversary? His name is Feraud.”

Shadowy in his tricorne and old-fashioned clothes, like a bowed, thin
ghost of the ancient regime, the Chevalier voiced a ghostly memory. “I
can remember the feud about little Sophie Derval, between Monsieur de
Brissac, Captain in the Bodyguards, and d’Anjorrant (not the pock-marked
one, the other–the Beau d’Anjorrant, as they called him). They met
three times in eighteen months in a most gallant manner. It was the
fault of that little Sophie, too, who would keep on playing . . .”

“This is nothing of the kind,” interrupted General D’Hubert. He laughed
a little sardonically. “Not at all so simple,” he added. “Nor yet half
so reasonable,” he finished, inaudibly, between his teeth, and ground
them with rage.

After this sound nothing troubled the silence for a long time, till the
Chevalier asked, without animation: “What is he–this Feraud?”

“Lieutenant of hussars, too–I mean, he’s a general. A Gascon. Son of a
blacksmith, I believe.”

“There! I thought so. That Bonaparte had a special predilection for the
canaille. I don’t mean this for you, D’Hubert. You are one of us, though
you have served this usurper, who . . .”

“Let’s leave him out of this,” broke in General D’Hubert.

The Chevalier shrugged his peaked shoulders. “Feraud of sorts. Offspring
of a blacksmith and some village troll. See what comes of mixing
yourself up with that sort of people.”

“You have made shoes yourself, Chevalier.”

“Yes. But I am not the son of a shoemaker. Neither are you, Monsieur
D’Hubert. You and I have something that your Bonaparte’s princes, dukes,
and marshals have not, because there’s no power on earth that could give
it to them,” retorted the emigre, with the rising animation of a man who
has got hold of a hopeful argument. “Those people don’t exist–all these
Ferauds. Feraud! What is Feraud? A va-nu-pieds disguised into a general
by a Corsican adventurer masquerading as an emperor. There is no earthly
reason for a D’Hubert to s’encanailler by a duel with a person of that
sort. You can make your excuses to him perfectly well. And if the manant
takes into his head to decline them, you may simply refuse to meet him.”

“You say I may do that?”

“I do. With the clearest conscience.”

“Monsieur le Chevalier! To what do you think you have returned from your

This was said in such a startling tone that the old man raised sharply
his bowed head, glimmering silvery white under the points of the little
tricorne. For a time he made no sound.

“God knows!” he said at last, pointing with a slow and grave gesture at
a tall roadside cross mounted on a block of stone, and stretching its
arms of forged iron all black against the darkening red band in the
sky–“God knows! If it were not for this emblem, which I remember seeing
on this spot as a child, I would wonder to what we who remained faithful
to God and our king have returned. The very voices of the people have

“Yes, it is a changed France,” said General D’Hubert. He seemed to have
regained his calm. His tone was slightly ironic. “Therefore I cannot
take your advice. Besides, how is one to refuse to be bitten by a dog
that means to bite? It’s impracticable. Take my word for it–Feraud
isn’t a man to be stayed by apologies or refusals. But there are
other ways. I could, for instance, send a messenger with a word to
the brigadier of the gendarmerie in Senlac. He and his two friends are
liable to arrest on my simple order. It would make some talk in the
army, both the organized and the disbanded–especially the disbanded.
All canaille! All once upon a time the companions in arms of Armand
D’Hubert. But what need a D’Hubert care what people that don’t exist may
think? Or, better still, I might get my brother-in-law to send for the
mayor of the village and give him a hint. No more would be needed to get
the three ‘brigands’ set upon with flails and pitchforks and hunted into
some nice, deep, wet ditch–and nobody the wiser! It has been done only
ten miles from here to three poor devils of the disbanded Red Lancers
of the Guard going to their homes. What says your conscience, Chevalier?
Can a D’Hubert do that thing to three men who do not exist?”

A few stars had come out on the blue obscurity, clear as crystal, of the
sky. The dry, thin voice of the Chevalier spoke harshly: “Why are you
telling me all this?”

The General seized the withered old hand with a strong grip. “Because
I owe you my fullest confidence. Who could tell Adele but you? You
understand why I dare not trust my brother-in-law nor yet my own sister.
Chevalier! I have been so near doing these things that I tremble yet.
You don’t know how terrible this duel appears to me. And there’s no
escape from it.”

He murmured after a pause, “It’s a fatality,” dropped the Chevalier’s
passive hand, and said in his ordinary conversational voice, “I shall
have to go without seconds. If it is my lot to remain on the ground, you
at least will know all that can be made known of this affair.”

The shadowy ghost of the ancient regime seemed to have become more bowed
during the conversation. “How am I to keep an indifferent face this
evening before these two women?” he groaned. “General! I find it very
difficult to forgive you.”

General D ‘Hubert made no answer.

“Is your cause good, at least?”

“I am innocent.”

This time he seized the Chevalier’s ghostly arm above the elbow, and
gave it a mighty squeeze. “I must kill him!” he hissed, and opening his
hand strode away down the road.

The delicate attentions of his adoring sister had secured for the
General perfect liberty of movement in the house where he was a guest.
He had even his own entrance through a small door in one corner of
the orangery. Thus he was not exposed that evening to the necessity
of dissembling his agitation before the calm ignorance of the other
inmates. He was glad of it. It seemed to him that if he had to open his
lips he would break out into horrible and aimless imprecations, start
breaking furniture, smashing china and glass. From the moment he opened
the private door and while ascending the twenty-eight steps of a winding
staircase, giving access to the corridor on which his room opened, he
went through a horrible and humiliating scene in which an infuriated
madman with blood-shot eyes and a foaming mouth played inconceivable
havoc with everything inanimate that may be found in a well-appointed
dining-room. When he opened the door of his apartment the fit was over,
and his bodily fatigue was so great that he had to catch at the backs
of the chairs while crossing the room to reach a low and broad divan
on which he let himself fall heavily. His moral prostration was still
greater. That brutality of feeling which he had known only when
charging the enemy, sabre in hand, amazed this man of forty, who did not
recognize in it the instinctive fury of his menaced passion. But in
his mental and bodily exhaustion this passion got cleared, distilled,
refined into a sentiment of melancholy despair at having, perhaps, to
die before he had taught this beautiful girl to love him.

That night, General D’Hubert stretched out on his back with his hands
over his eyes, or lying on his breast with his face buried in a
cushion, made the full pilgrimage of emotions. Nauseating disgust at
the absurdity of the situation, doubt of his own fitness to conduct his
existence, and mistrust of his best sentiments (for what the devil did
he want to go to Fouche for?)–he knew them all in turn. “I am an
idiot, neither more nor less,” he thought–“A sensitive idiot. Because
I overheard two men talking in a cafe. . . . I am an idiot afraid of
lies–whereas in life it is only truth that matters.”

Several times he got up and, walking in his socks in order not to be
heard by anybody downstairs, drank all the water he could find in the
dark. And he tasted the torments of jealousy, too. She would marry
somebody else. His very soul writhed. The tenacity of that Feraud,
the awful persistence of that imbecile brute, came to him with the
tremendous force of a relentless destiny. General D’Hubert trembled as
he put down the empty water ewer. “He will have me,” he thought. General
D’Hubert was tasting every emotion that life has to give. He had in
his dry mouth the faint sickly flavor of fear, not the excusable fear
before a young girl’s candid and amused glance, but the fear of death
and the honorable man’s fear of cowardice.

But if true courage consists in going out to meet an odious danger from
which our body, soul, and heart recoil together, General D’Hubert had
the opportunity to practice it for the first time in his life. He had
charged exultingly at batteries and at infantry squares, and ridden with
messages through a hail of bullets without thinking anything about
it. His business now was to sneak out unheard, at break of day, to
an obscure and revolting death. General D’Hubert never hesitated. He
carried two pistols in a leather bag which he slung over his shoulder.
Before he had crossed the garden his mouth was dry again. He picked two
oranges. It was only after shutting the gate after him that he felt a
slight faintness.

He staggered on, disregarding it, and after going a few yards regained
the command of his legs. In the colorless and pellucid dawn the wood
of pines detached its columns of trunks and its dark green canopy very
clearly against the rocks of the grey hillside. He kept his eyes fixed
on it steadily, and sucked at an orange as he walked. That temperamental
good-humored coolness in the face of danger which had made him an
officer liked by his men and appreciated by his superiors was gradually
asserting itself. It was like going into battle. Arriving at the edge of
the wood he sat down on a boulder, holding the other orange in his hand,
and reproached himself for coming so ridiculously early on the ground.
Before very long, however, he heard the swishing of bushes, footsteps
on the hard ground, and the sounds of a disjointed, loud conversation. A
voice somewhere behind him said boastfully, “He’s game for my bag.”

He thought to himself, “Here they are. What’s this about game? Are they
talking of me?” And becoming aware of the other orange in his hand, he
thought further, “These are very good oranges. Leonie’s own tree. I may
just as well eat this orange now instead of flinging it away.”

Emerging from a wilderness of rocks and bushes, General Feraud and his
seconds discovered General D’Hubert engaged in peeling the orange. They
stood still, waiting till he looked up. Then the seconds raised their
hats, while General Feraud, putting his hands behind his back, walked
aside a little way.

“I am compelled to ask one of you, messieurs, to act for me. I have
brought no friends. Will you?”

The one-eyed cuirassier said judicially, “That cannot be refused.”

The other veteran remarked, “It’s awkward all the same.”

“Owing to the state of the people’s minds in this part of the country
there was no one I could trust safely with the object of your presence
here,” explained General D’Hubert, urbanely.

They saluted, looked round, and remarked both together:

“Poor ground.”

“It’s unfit.”

“Why bother about ground, measurements, and so on? Let us simplify
matters. Load the two pairs of pistols. I will take those of General
Feraud, and let him take mine. Or, better still, let us take a mixed
pair. One of each pair. Then let us go into the wood and shoot at sight,
while you remain outside. We did not come here for ceremonies, but for
war–war to the death. Any ground is good enough for that. If I fall,
you must leave me where I lie and clear out. It wouldn’t be healthy for
you to be found hanging about here after that.”

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It appeared after a short parley that General Feraud was willing to
accept these conditions. While the seconds were loading the pistols,
he could be heard whistling, and was seen to rub his hands with perfect
contentment. He flung off his coat briskly, and General D ‘Hubert took
off his own and folded it carefully on a stone.

“Suppose you take your principal to the other side of the wood and let
him enter exactly in ten minutes from now,” suggested General D’Hubert,
calmly, but feeling as if he were giving directions for his own
execution. This, however, was his last moment of weakness. “Wait. Let us
compare watches first.”

He pulled out his own. The officer with the chipped nose went over to
borrow the watch of General Feraud. They bent their heads over them for
a time.

“That’s it. At four minutes to six by yours. Seven to by mine.”

It was the cuirassier who remained by the side of General D’Hubert,
keeping his one eye fixed immovably on the white face of the watch he
held in the palm of his hand. He opened his mouth, waiting for the beat
of the last second long before he snapped out the word, “Avancez.”

General D’Hubert moved on, passing from the glaring sunshine of the
Provencal morning into the cool and aromatic shade of the pines. The
ground was clear between the reddish trunks, whose multitude, leaning at
slightly different angles, confused his eye at first. It was like going
into battle. The commanding quality of confidence in himself woke up in
his breast. He was all to his affair. The problem was how to kill the
adversary. Nothing short of that would free him from this imbecile
nightmare. “It’s no use wounding that brute,” thought General D’Hubert.
He was known as a resourceful officer. His comrades years ago used also
to call him The Strategist. And it was a fact that he could think in
the presence of the enemy. Whereas Feraud had been always a mere
fighter–but a dead shot, unluckily.

“I must draw his fire at the greatest possible range,” said General
D’Hubert to himself.

At that moment he saw something white moving far off between the
trees–the shirt of his adversary. He stepped out at once between the
trunks, exposing himself freely; then, quick as lightning, leaped
back. It had been a risky move but it succeeded in its object. Almost
simultaneously with the pop of a shot a small piece of bark chipped off
by the bullet stung his ear painfully.

General Feraud, with one shot expended, was getting cautious. Peeping
round the tree, General D’Hubert could not see him at all. This
ignorance of the foe’s whereabouts carried with it a sense of
insecurity. General D’Hubert felt himself abominably exposed on his
flank and rear. Again something white fluttered in his sight. Ha! The
enemy was still on his front, then. He had feared a turning movement.
But apparently General Feraud was not thinking of it. General D’Hubert
saw him pass without special haste from one tree to another in the
straight line of approach. With great firmness of mind General D’Hubert
stayed his hand. Too far yet. He knew he was no marksman. His must be a
waiting game–to kill.

Wishing to take advantage of the greater thickness of the trunk, he sank
down to the ground. Extended at full length, head on to his enemy, he
had his person completely protected. Exposing himself would not do now,
because the other was too near by this time. A conviction that Feraud
would presently do something rash was like balm to General D’Hubert’s
soul. But to keep his chin raised off the ground was irksome, and not
much use either. He peeped round, exposing a fraction of his head with
dread, but really with little risk. His enemy, as a matter of fact, did
not expect to see anything of him so far down as that. General D’Hubert
caught a fleeting view of General Feraud shifting trees again with
deliberate caution. “He despises my shooting,” he thought, displaying
that insight into the mind of his antagonist which is of such great help
in winning battles. He was confirmed in his tactics of immobility. “If
I could only watch my rear as well as my front!” he thought anxiously,
longing for the impossible.

It required some force of character to lay his pistols down; but, on a
sudden impulse, General D’Hubert did this very gently–one on each side
of him. In the army he had been looked upon as a bit of a dandy because
he used to shave and put on a clean shirt on the days of battle. As
a matter of fact, he had always been very careful of his personal
appearance. In a man of nearly forty, in love with a young and charming
girl, this praiseworthy self-respect may run to such little weaknesses
as, for instance, being provided with an elegant little leather
folding-case containing a small ivory comb, and fitted with a piece of
looking-glass on the outside. General D’Hubert, his hands being free,
felt in his breeches’ pockets for that implement of innocent vanity
excusable in the possessor of long, silky moustaches. He drew it out,
and then with the utmost coolness and promptitude turned himself over
on his back. In this new attitude, his head a little raised, holding the
little looking-glass just clear of his tree, he squinted into it with
his left eye, while the right kept a direct watch on the rear of his
position. Thus was proved Napoleon’s saying, that “for a French soldier,
the word impossible does not exist.” He had the right tree nearly
filling the field of his little mirror.

“If he moves from behind it,” he reflected with satisfaction, “I am
bound to see his legs. But in any case he can’t come upon me unawares.”

And sure enough he saw the boots of General Feraud flash in and out,
eclipsing for an instant everything else reflected in the little mirror.
He shifted its position accordingly. But having to form his judgment of
the change from that indirect view he did not realize that now his feet
and a portion of his legs were in plain sight of General Feraud.

General Feraud had been getting gradually impressed by the amazing
cleverness with which his enemy was keeping cover. He had spotted the
right tree with bloodthirsty precision. He was absolutely certain of it.
And yet he had not been able to glimpse as much as the tip of an ear. As
he had been looking for it at the height of about five feet ten inches
from the ground it was no great wonder–but it seemed very wonderful to
General Feraud.

The first view of these feet and legs determined a rush of blood to his
head. He literally staggered behind his tree, and had to steady himself
against it with his hand. The other was lying on the ground, then! On
the ground! Perfectly still, too! Exposed! What could it mean? . . . The
notion that he had knocked over his adversary at the first shot entered
then General Feraud’s head. Once there it grew with every second of
attentive gazing, overshadowing every other supposition–irresistible,
triumphant, ferocious.

“What an ass I was to think I could have missed him,” he muttered to
himself. “He was exposed en plein–the fool!–for quite a couple of

General Feraud gazed at the motionless limbs, the last vestiges of
surprise fading before an unbounded admiration of his own deadly skill
with the pistol.

“Turned up his toes! By the god of war, that was a shot!” he exulted
mentally. “Got it through the head, no doubt, just where I aimed,
staggered behind that tree, rolled over on his back, and died.”

And he stared! He stared, forgetting to move, almost awed, almost
sorry. But for nothing in the world would he have had it undone. Such a
shot!–such a shot! Rolled over on his back and died!

For it was this helpless position, lying on the back, that shouted its
direct evidence at General Feraud! It never occurred to him that
it might have been deliberately assumed by a living man. It was
inconceivable. It was beyond the range of sane supposition. There was no
possibility to guess the reason for it. And it must be said, too, that
General D’Hubert’s turned-up feet looked thoroughly dead. General Feraud
expanded his lungs for a stentorian shout to his seconds, but, from what
he felt to be an excessive scrupulousness, refrained for a while.

“I will just go and see first whether he breathes yet,” he mumbled
to himself, leaving carelessly the shelter of his tree. This move was
immediately perceived by the resourceful General D’Hubert. He concluded
it to be another shift, but when he lost the boots out of the field of
the mirror he became uneasy. General Feraud had only stepped a little
out of the line, but his adversary could not possibly have supposed him
walking up with perfect unconcern. General D’Hubert, beginning to wonder
at what had become of the other, was taken unawares so completely that
the first warning of danger consisted in the long, early-morning shadow
of his enemy falling aslant on his outstretched legs. He had not even
heard a footfall on the soft ground between the trees!

It was too much even for his coolness. He jumped up thoughtlessly,
leaving the pistols on the ground. The irresistible instinct of an
average man (unless totally paralyzed by discomfiture) would have been
to stoop for his weapons, exposing himself to the risk of being shot
down in that position. Instinct, of course, is unreflective. It is its
very definition. But it may be an inquiry worth pursuing whether
in reflective mankind the mechanical promptings of instinct are not
affected by the customary mode of thought. In his young days, Armand
D’Hubert, the reflective, promising officer, had emitted the opinion
that in warfare one should “never cast back on the lines of a mistake.”
This idea, defended and developed in many discussions, had settled into
one of the stock notions of his brain, had become a part of his mental
individuality. Whether it had gone so inconceivably deep as to affect
the dictates of his instinct, or simply because, as he himself declared
afterwards, he was “too scared to remember the confounded pistols,” the
fact is that General D’Hubert never attempted to stoop for them. Instead
of going back on his mistake, he seized the rough trunk with both hands,
and swung himself behind it with such impetuosity that, going right
round in the very flash and report of the pistol-shot, he reappeared on
the other side of the tree face to face with General Feraud. This last,
completely unstrung by such a show of agility on the part of a dead man,
was trembling yet. A very faint mist of smoke hung before his face which
had an extraordinary aspect, as if the lower jaw had come unhinged.

“Not missed!” he croaked, hoarsely, from the depths of a dry throat.

This sinister sound loosened the spell that had fallen on General
D’Hubert’s senses. “Yes, missed–a bout portant,” he heard himself
saying, almost before he had recovered the full command of his
faculties. The revulsion of feeling was accompanied by a gust of
homicidal fury, resuming in its violence the accumulated resentment of
a lifetime. For years General D ‘Hubert had been exasperated and
humiliated by an atrocious absurdity imposed upon him by this man’s
savage caprice. Besides, General D’Hubert had been in this last instance
too unwilling to confront death for the reaction of his anguish not to
take the shape of a desire to kill. “And I have my two shots to fire
yet,” he added, pitilessly.

General Feraud snapped-to his teeth, and his face assumed an irate,
undaunted expression. “Go on!” he said, grimly.

These would have been his last words if General D’Hubert had been
holding the pistols in his hands. But the pistols were lying on the
ground at the foot of a pine. General D’Hubert had the second of leisure
necessary to remember that he had dreaded death not as a man, but as a
lover; not as a danger, but as a rival; not as a foe to life, but as an
obstacle to marriage. And behold! there was the rival defeated!–utterly
defeated, crushed, done for!

He picked up the weapons mechanically, and, instead of firing them into
General Feraud’s breast, he gave expression to the thoughts uppermost in
his mind, “You will fight no more duels now.”

His tone of leisurely, ineffable satisfaction was too much for General
Feraud’s stoicism. “Don’t dawdle, then, damn you for a cold-blooded
staff-coxcomb!” he roared out, suddenly, out of an impassive face held
erect on a rigidly still body.

General D’Hubert uncocked the pistols carefully. This proceeding was
observed with mixed feelings by the other general. “You missed me
twice,” the victor said, coolly, shifting both pistols to one hand; “the
last time within a foot or so. By every rule of single combat your life
belongs to me. That does not mean that I want to take it now.”

“I have no use for your forbearance,” muttered General Feraud, gloomily.

“Allow me to point out that this is no concern of mine,” said General
D’Hubert, whose every word was dictated by a consummate delicacy of
feeling. In anger he could have killed that man, but in cold blood he
recoiled from humiliating by a show of generosity this unreasonable
being–a fellow-soldier of the Grande Armee, a companion in the wonders
and terrors of the great military epic. “You don’t set up the pretension
of dictating to me what I am to do with what’s my own.”

General Feraud looked startled, and the other continued, “You’ve forced
me on a point of honor to keep my life at your disposal, as it were,
for fifteen years. Very well. Now that the matter is decided to my
advantage, I am going to do what I like with your life on the same
principle. You shall keep it at my disposal as long as I choose. Neither
more nor less. You are on your honor till I say the word.”

“I am! But, sacrebleu! This is an absurd position for a General of the
Empire to be placed in!” cried General Feraud, in accents of profound
and dismayed conviction. “It amounts to sitting all the rest of my
life with a loaded pistol in a drawer waiting for your word. It’s–it’s
idiotic; I shall be an object of–of–derision.”

“Absurd?–idiotic? Do you think so?” queried General D’Hubert with sly
gravity. “Perhaps. But I don’t see how that can be helped. However, I
am not likely to talk at large of this adventure. Nobody need ever know
anything about it. Just as no one to this day, I believe, knows the
origin of our quarrel. . . . Not a word more,” he added, hastily.
“I can’t really discuss this question with a man who, as far as I am
concerned, does not exist.”

When the two duellists came out into the open, General Feraud walking a
little behind, and rather with the air of walking in a trance, the two
seconds hurried towards them, each from his station at the edge of the
wood. General D’Hubert addressed them, speaking loud and distinctly,
“Messieurs, I make it a point of declaring to you solemnly, in the
presence of General Feraud, that our difference is at last settled for
good. You may inform all the world of that fact.”

“A reconciliation, after all!” they exclaimed together.

“Reconciliation? Not that exactly. It is something much more binding. Is
it not so, General?”

General Feraud only lowered his head in sign of assent. The two veterans
looked at each other. Later in the day, when they found themselves alone
out of their moody friend’s earshot, the cuirassier remarked suddenly,
“Generally speaking, I can see with my one eye as far as most people;
but this beats me. He won’t say anything.”

“In this affair of honor I understand there has been from first to last
always something that no one in the army could quite make out,” declared
the chasseur with the imperfect nose. “In mystery it began, in mystery
it went on, in mystery it is to end, apparently.”

General D’Hubert walked home with long, hasty strides, by no means
uplifted by a sense of triumph. He had conquered, yet it did not seem
to him that he had gained very much by his conquest. The night before
he had grudged the risk of his life which appeared to him magnificent,
worthy of preservation as an opportunity to win a girl’s love. He had
known moments when, by a marvelous illusion, this love seemed to
be already his, and his threatened life a still more magnificent
opportunity of devotion. Now that his life was safe it had suddenly lost
its special magnificence. It had acquired instead a specially alarming
aspect as a snare for the exposure of unworthiness. As to the marvelous
illusion of conquered love that had visited him for a moment in the
agitated watches of the night, which might have been his last on earth,
he comprehended now its true nature. It had been merely a paroxysm of
delirious conceit. Thus to this man, sobered by the victorious issue
of a duel, life appeared robbed of its charm, simply because it was no
longer menaced.

Approaching the house from the back, through the orchard and the kitchen
garden, he could not notice the agitation which reigned in front. He
never met a single soul. Only while walking softly along the corridor,
he became aware that the house was awake and more noisy than usual.
Names of servants were being called out down below in a confused noise
of coming and going. With some concern he noticed that the door of his
own room stood ajar, though the shutters had not been opened yet. He
had hoped that his early excursion would have passed unperceived. He
expected to find some servant just gone in; but the sunshine filtering
through the usual cracks enabled him to see lying on the low divan
something bulky, which had the appearance of two women clasped in each
other’s arms. Tearful and desolate murmurs issued mysteriously from that
appearance. General D’Hubert pulled open the nearest pair of shutters
violently. One of the women then jumped up. It was his sister. She stood
for a moment with her hair hanging down and her arms raised straight up
above her head, and then flung herself with a stifled cry into his arms.
He returned her embrace, trying at the same time to disengage himself
from it. The other woman had not risen. She seemed, on the contrary, to
cling closer to the divan, hiding her face in the cushions. Her hair was
also loose; it was admirably fair. General D’Hubert recognized it with
staggering emotion. Mademoiselle de Valmassigue! Adele! In distress!

He became greatly alarmed, and got rid of his sister’s hug definitely.
Madame Leonie then extended her shapely bare arm out of her peignoir,
pointing dramatically at the divan. “This poor, terrified child has
rushed here from home, on foot, two miles–running all the way.”

“What on earth has happened?” asked General D’Hubert in a low, agitated

But Madame Leonie was speaking loudly. “She rang the great bell at
the gate and roused all the household–we were all asleep yet. You may
imagine what a terrible shock. . . . Adele, my dear child, sit up.”

General D’Hubert’s expression was not that of a man who “imagines” with
facility. He did, however, fish out of the chaos of surmises the notion
that his prospective mother-in-law had died suddenly, but only to
dismiss it at once. He could not conceive the nature of the event or the
catastrophe which would induce Mademoiselle de Valmassigue, living in a
house full of servants, to bring the news over the fields herself, two
miles, running all the way.

“But why are you in this room?” he whispered, full of awe.

“Of course, I ran up to see, and this child . . . I did not notice it
. . . she followed me. It’s that absurd Chevalier,” went on Madame
Leonie, looking towards the divan. . . . “Her hair is all come down. You
may imagine she did not stop to call her maid to dress it before she
started. . . Adele, my dear, sit up. . . . He blurted it all out to her
at half-past five in the morning. She woke up early and opened her
shutters to breathe the fresh air, and saw him sitting collapsed on a
garden bench at the end of the great alley. At that hour–you may
imagine! And the evening before he had declared himself indisposed. She
hurried on some clothes and flew down to him. One would be anxious for
less. He loves her, but not very intelligently. He had been up all
night, fully dressed, the poor old man, perfectly exhausted. He wasn’t
in a state to invent a plausible story. . . . What a confidant you chose
there! My husband was furious. He said, ‘We can’t interfere now.’ So we
sat down to wait. It was awful. And this poor child running with her
hair loose over here publicly! She has been seen by some people in the
fields. She has roused the whole household, too. It’s awkward for her.
Luckily you are to be married next week. . . . Adele, sit up. He has
come home on his own legs. . . . We expected to see you coming on a
stretcher, perhaps–what do I know? Go and see if the carriage is ready.
I must take this child home at once. It isn’t proper for her to stay
here a minute longer.”

General D’Hubert did not move. It was as though he had heard nothing.
Madame Leonie changed her mind. “I will go and see myself,” she cried.
“I want also my cloak.–Adele–” she began, but did not add “sit up.”
She went out saying, in a very loud and cheerful tone: “I leave the door

General D’Hubert made a movement towards the divan, but then Adele
sat up, and that checked him dead. He thought, “I haven’t washed this
morning. I must look like an old tramp. There’s earth on the back of my
coat and pine-needles in my hair.” It occurred to him that the situation
required a good deal of circumspection on his part.

“I am greatly concerned, mademoiselle,” he began, vaguely, and abandoned
that line. She was sitting up on the divan with her cheeks
unusually pink and her hair, brilliantly fair, falling all over her
shoulders–which was a very novel sight to the general. He walked away
up the room, and looking out of the window for safety said, “I fear you
must think I behaved like a madman,” in accents of sincere despair. Then
he spun round, and noticed that she had followed him with her eyes. They
were not cast down on meeting his glance. And the expression of her face
was novel to him also. It was, one might have said, reversed. Those eyes
looked at him with grave thoughtfulness, while the exquisite lines of
her mouth seemed to suggest a restrained smile. This change made her
transcendental beauty much less mysterious, much more accessible to a
man’s comprehension. An amazing ease of mind came to the general–and
even some ease of manner. He walked down the room with as much
pleasurable excitement as he would have found in walking up to a battery
vomiting death, fire, and smoke; then stood looking down with smiling
eyes at the girl whose marriage with him (next week) had been so
carefully arranged by the wise, the good, the admirable Leonie.

“Ah! mademoiselle,” he said, in a tone of courtly regret, “if only I
could be certain that you did not come here this morning, two miles,
running all the way, merely from affection for your mother!”

He waited for an answer imperturbable but inwardly elated. It came in a
demure murmur, eyelashes lowered with fascinating effect. “You must not
be merchant as well as mad.”

And then General D’Hubert made an aggressive movement towards the divan
which nothing could check. That piece of furniture was not exactly in
the line of the open door. But Madame Leonie, coming back wrapped up in
a light cloak and carrying a lace shawl on her arm for Adele to hide her
incriminating hair under, had a swift impression of her brother getting
up from his knees.

“Come along, my dear child,” she cried from the doorway.

The general, now himself again in the fullest sense, showed the
readiness of a resourceful cavalry officer and the peremptoriness of a
leader of men. “You don’t expect her to walk to the carriage,” he said,
indignantly. “She isn’t fit. I shall carry her downstairs.”

This he did slowly, followed by his awed and respectful sister; but he
rushed back like a whirlwind to wash off all the signs of the night of
anguish and the morning of war, and to put on the festive garments of a
conqueror before hurrying over to the other house. Had it not been for
that, General D ‘Hubert felt capable of mounting a horse and pursuing
his late adversary in order simply to embrace him from excess of
happiness. “I owe it all to this stupid brute,” he thought. “He has made
plain in a morning what might have taken me years to find out–for I
am a timid fool. No self-confidence whatever. Perfect coward. And the
Chevalier! Delightful old man!” General D’Hubert longed to embrace him

The Chevalier was in bed. For several days he was very unwell. The men
of the Empire and the post-revolution young ladies were too much for
him. He got up the day before the wedding, and, being curious by nature,
took his niece aside for a quiet talk. He advised her to find out from
her husband the true story of the affair of honor, whose claim, so
imperative and so persistent, had led her to within an ace of tragedy.
“It is right that his wife should be told. And next month or so will be
your time to learn from him anything you want to know, my dear child.”

Later on, when the married couple came on a visit to the mother of the
bride, Madame la Generale D’Hubert communicated to her beloved old uncle
the true story she had obtained without any difficulty from her husband.

The Chevalier listened with deep attention to the end, took a pinch
of snuff, flicked the grains of tobacco from the frilled front of his
shirt, and asked, calmly, “And that’s all it was?”

“Yes, uncle,” replied Madame la Generale, opening her pretty eyes very
wide. “Isn’t it funny? C’est insense–to think what men are capable of!”

“H’m!” commented the old emigre. “It depends what sort of men. That
Bonaparte’s soldiers were savages. It is insense. As a wife, my dear,
you must believe implicitly what your husband says.”

But to Leonie’s husband the Chevalier confided his true opinion.
“If that’s the tale the fellow made up for his wife, and during the
honeymoon, too, you may depend on it that no one will ever know now the
secret of this affair.”

Considerably later still, General D’Hubert judged the time come, and the
opportunity propitious to write a letter to General Feraud. This letter
began by disclaiming all animosity. “I’ve never,” wrote the General
Baron D’Hubert, “wished for your death during all the time of our
deplorable quarrel. Allow me,” he continued, “to give you back in
all form your forfeited life. It is proper that we two, who have been
partners in so much military glory, should be friendly to each other

The same letter contained also an item of domestic information. It was
in reference to this last that General Feraud answered from a little
village on the banks of the Garonne, in the following words:

“If one of your boy’s names had been Napoleon–or Joseph–or even
Joachim, I could congratulate you on the event with a better heart. As
you have thought proper to give him the names of Charles Henri Armand,
I am confirmed in my conviction that you never loved the Emperor. The
thought of that sublime hero chained to a rock in the middle of a savage
ocean makes life of so little value that I would receive with positive
joy your instructions to blow my brains out. From suicide I consider
myself in honor debarred. But I keep a loaded pistol in my drawer.”

Madame la Generale D’Hubert lifted up her hands in despair after
perusing that answer.

“You see? He won’t be reconciled,” said her husband. “He must never, by
any chance, be allowed to guess where the money comes from. It wouldn’t
do. He couldn’t bear it.”

“You are a brave homme, Armand,” said Madame la Generale, appreciatively.

“My dear, I had the right to blow his brains out; but as I didn’t,
we can’t let him starve. He has lost his pension and he is utterly
incapable of doing anything in the world for himself. We must take
care of him, secretly, to the end of his days. Don’t I owe him the
most ecstatic moment of my life? . . . Ha! ha! ha! Over the fields, two
miles, running all the way! I couldn’t believe my ears! . . . But for
his stupid ferocity, it would have taken me years to find you out. It’s
extraordinary how in one way or another this man has managed to fasten
himself on my deeper feelings.”

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