"Mon Dieu, how horrible! I would never submit to such a barbarous test. That is not a duel, it is murder."
I shrugged my shoulders as gracefully, I flatter myself, as Paolo himself could have done it. But for the moment Paolo was in no shoulder-shrugging mood. 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. "I would not have him or anyone know of this monstrous proposal. I should never hear the end of it, and there would be a thousand versions of the story."