“What, a white waistcoat. Why, it’s offering a mark for your adversary. I won’t have it. Certain death if the fellow is anything of a shot.”
“I never thought of that. I’ll button up my coat.”
“I won’t permit you to wear a white waistcoat, not under any circumstances. Sacre, it’s ridiculous. Take it off and wear one of mine. It won’t fit you very well I dare say, but that’s a matter of secondary importance. Off with your waistcoat without further ado; and an open white shirt front! Here is a waistcoat which will button up to the throat—that’s the garment to fight a duel in.”
Lord Ethalwood smiled, took off his waistcoat, and put on the one handed to him by the old officer.
“There,” said the latter, “that’s better. Offer no mark to the enemy; and now, mark you, we must bring down our man at the first shot, if that be possible. We’ll manage it, I have made up my mind as to that, but let me see. Oh, yes, the brandy.”
“I don’t want any.”
“You will have to take it nevertheless.”
De Monpres poured out a glass of cognac, into which he carefully let fall a few drops of laudanum.
“That will steady your nerves—make you as bold and fearless as a lion. Top it off.”
“Must I?”