His very crest--it seemed to me--was
drooping.
"Nevertheless," said I, "that is the American idea of a duel, as
practised in the best society. My friend is a member of the Four
Hundred, and should it become known that he had been killed in an
old-fashioned, butcherly duel, his memory would be disgraced."
"But what about my memory?" demanded Paolo, with open palms. "Monsieur
does not appear to think of that."
"It was not on my mind. I am acting for my friend. You have challenged
a boy, a mere child, to fight you to the death. He very pluckily
accepts your challenge. There are those who would think that you had
done a brutal, even a cowardly thing, in putting a youth of seventeen
or eighteen into such a position. Then, surely your most lenient
friends would say that the least you could do would be to give the
child his right of choice in weapons. Very well; he chooses two bits
of paper of different lengths."
Paolo shuddered. "I will not consent," he said, swallowing hard, after
a moment's reflection.
"Very well. You have had my friend's ultimatum. Am I to tell him that
this is yours?"
"It is not fair!" he exclaimed. "Monsieur Laurence has his friend to
act for him. As yet, I have no one."
"He is eighteen at most. You are--perhaps thirty. Still, if you
insist, I will see Captain de Sales, tell him my principal's idea, and
perhaps he will be more fortunate in inducing you to consent----"
"No, no," cried the Italian quickly.
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