"Ah! my poor Barbiche, I fear that I have, as our American friends say, 'given you away.'"
"You don't mean to say that the coward has apologized? This was no case for an apology, De Kerguel, as you know."
"I wish it had been," said his friend; "unfortunately you are to fight."
Barbiche instantly threw himself into a Napoleonic attitude. Under such circumstances a Frenchman always feels himself a hero, and invariably unconsciously assumes the favourite pose of the Little Corporal.
"Yes, you are to fight, my poor friend, but with cavalry sabres."
Barbiche suddenly buried his face in his hands, and exclaimed in a broken voice, "Oh, my mother!"
When a Frenchman is in a very deep hole indeed, he always apostrophizes his mother; on ordinary occasions he thinks little enough about her.
"Kerguel," he cried at length, looking up reproachfully at his friend, "you must have been mad. The sabre, as you know, is only used among cavalry officers; the pistol or the small-sword are the arms of gentlemen."
"And also of journalists, my friend. Of that the rusé old general, our man's friend, was unfortunately too well aware. You had tied me down too tightly, my Barbiche; my instructions were to obtain a meeting at any price. It was the choice of Hobson, that or none."