Chapter Eight.
The Duel.
It was a tragic end in that night’s gay scene.
Guests whose carriages were not ordered till 4 a.m. stood shivering in the hall at 11 p.m.
Five hours to wait!
Meanwhile, on two special steamers the Duc de Septimominorelli and the Marquis de Smellismelli sought the shore of France.
On the lonely sands between Calais and Ushant the rivals stood face to face, at a hundred paces distance.
They had no seconds, so each loaded the other’s weapon.
It could not have been the wind that made their knees tremble and their teeth chatter, for there was none. Neither could it have been the weight of the pistols which made their hands wave to and fro, for these were Boxer’s eight-ounce Maxim Repeaters.
No; these two men were the subjects of deep physical emotion. The moment had come, and the Duc was about to drop his handkerchief, when the Marquis abruptly folded his arms and said, “Excuse me, we have met before, have we not? Ha, ha, Sep, my boy!”
At the sound of his voice, the so-called Duc flung his weapon two hundred yards in the air, and with the bound of a hunted tiger buried himself in the turmoil of the French capital.
There was no duel on those yellow sands after all.