“No bad plan either,” cried two or three. “Monsieur Auguste is right; Francois can't bear the cold steel, and if he sees it close, he loses his head altogether.”
The courtyard was already cleared for action; the horses picketed in one corner, the straw removed, and a blaze of light from all the lamps and candles of the supper-room showed the ground as clearly as at noonday. While my antagonist was taking off his coat and vest,—an operation I did not choose to imitate,—I took a rapid survey of the scene, and notwithstanding the rush of advisers around me, was sufficiently collected to decide on my mode of acting.
“Come, mon lieutenant, off with your frock,” said an officer at my side; “even if you don't care for the advantage of a free sword-arm, those fellows yonder won't believe it all fair, if you do not strip.”
“Yes, yes, take it off,” said a fellow in the crowd, “your fine epaulettes may as well escape tarnishing; and that new coat, too, will be all the better without a hole in it.”
I hastily threw off my coat and waistcoat, when the crowd fell back, and the maitre d'armes advancing into the open space with a light and nimble step, cried out, “En garde, Monsieur!” I stood my ground, and crossed my sword with his.
For a few seconds I contented myself with merely observing my adversary, who handled his weapon not only with all the skill of an accomplished swordsman, but with a dexterity that showed me he was playing off his art before his companions.
As if to measure his distance, he made two or three slight passes over the guard of my sword, and then grating his blade against mine with that peculiar motion which bodes attack, he fixed his eyes on mine, to draw off my attention from his intended thrust. The quickness and facility with which his weapon changed from side to side of mine, the easy motion of his wrist, and the rigid firm ness of his arm, all showed me I was no match for him,—although one of the best of my day at the military school,—and I did not venture to proceed beyond mere defence. He saw this, and by many a trick endeavored to induce an attack,—now dropping his point carelessly, to address a monosyllable to a friend near; now throwing open his guard, as if from negligence.
At length, as if tired with waiting, he called out, “Que cela finisse!” and rushed in on me.
