“Why, fight, of course!”
Only, his voice was weaker, and he added, as he closed his eyes, as though to ask to be left alone:
“Unless you have anything else to suggest.”
Then the gentlemen held a grand council in the midst of the laborious jolts of the vehicle. Duveyrier, the same as Bachelard, considered the duel indispensable; and he was deeply affected by it, on account of the blood likely to be spilt, a long black stream of which he pictured soiling the stairs of his property; but honor demanded it, and one cannot compound with honor. Trublot had broader views: it was too stupid to place one’s honor in what out of decency he termed a woman’s frailty. And Auguste approved what he said by a weary blink of his eyelids, thoroughly incensed at last by the bellicose rage of the two others, whose duty it was on the contrary to have been conciliatory. In spite of his fatigue, he was obliged to relate once more the scene of the night before, the blow he had given and the blow he had received; and soon the fact of the adultery was lost sight of, the discussion bore solely upon these two blows: they were commented upon, and analyzed, as a satisfactory solution was sought for.
“What refinement!” Trublot ended by contemptuously saying. “If they hit each other, well! they’re quits.”
Duveyrier and Bachelard looked at one another, evidently shaken in their opinions. But just then they arrived at the restaurant, and the uncle declared that they would first of all have a good lunch. It would help to clear their ideas. He stood treat, ordering a copious meal, with costly dishes and wines, which kept them three hours in a private room. The duel was not even once mentioned. From the very beginning, the conversation had necessarily turned on the question of women; Fifi and Clarisse were during the whole time explained, turned inside out, and pulled to pieces. Bachelard now admitted himself to have been in the wrong, so as not to appear to the counselor as having been vilely chucked over; whilst the latter, taking his revenge for the evening when the uncle had seen him weep in the middle of the empty rooms in the Rue de la Cerisaie, lied about his happiness, to the point of believing in it and being affected by it himself. Seated before them, Auguste, prevented by his neuralgia both from eating and drinking, appeared to be listening, an elbow on the table, and a confused look in his eyes. At dessert, Trublot recollected the driver, who had been forgotten outside: and, full of sympathy, he sent him the remnants of the dishes and what was left in the bottles; for, said he, from certain things he had let drop, he had a suspicion the man was an ex-priest. Three o’clock struck. Duveyrier complained of being assessor at the next sitting of the assizes; Bachelard, who was now very drunk, spat sideways onto Trublot’s trousers, without the latter noticing it; and the day would have been finished there, amidst the liquors, if Auguste had not suddenly roused himself with a start.
“Well, what’s going to be done?” asked he.
“Well! young ’un,” replied the uncle, speaking most familiarly, “if you like, we’ll settle matters nicely for you. It’s stupid to fight.”
No one appeared surprised at this conclusion. Duveyrier signified his approval with a nod of the head. The uncle continued:
“I’ll go with Monsieur Duveyrier and see the fellow, and he shall apologize, or my name isn’t Bachelard. The mere sight of me will make him cave in, just because I shall have no business there. I don’t care a hang for anyone!”