"One more word, Dalrymple--did he really cheat you at écarté?"
"Upon my soul, I don't know. He did hold the king very often, and there are some queer stories told of him in Vienna by the officers of the Emperor's Guard. At all events, this is not the first duel he has had to fight in defence of his good-fortune!"
De Simoncourt now coming forward, we adjourned at once to the wood behind the village. A little open glade was soon found; the ground was soon measured; the pistols were soon loaded. De Caylus looked horribly pale, but it was the pallor of concentrated rage, with nothing of the craven hue in it. Dalrymple, on the contrary, had neither more nor less color than usual, and puffed away at his cigar with as much indifference as if he were waiting his turn at the pit of the Comédie Française. Both were clothed in black from head to foot, with their coats buttoned to the chin.
"All is ready," said De Simoncourt. "Gentlemen, choose your weapons."
De Caylus took his pistols one by one, weighed and poised them, examined the priming, and finally, after much hesitation, decided.
Dalrymple took the first that came to hand.
The combatants then took their places--De Caylus with his hat pulled low over his eyes; Dalrymple still smoking carelessly.
They exchanged bows.
"Major Dalrymple," said De Simoncourt, "it is for you to fire first."
"God bless you, Damon!" said my friend, shaking me warmly by the hand.