My own uncle was shot dead by a Frenchman when attached to the army of occupation at Cambray. It was a romantic story, and I had often heard the particulars from my godfather, General Grape, who officiated as his second. My uncle was a handsome, chivalrous youth, deeply attached to a countrywoman of his own, whose picture he wore constantly next his heart. Such a man was not likely to become compromised with another lady. It happened, however, that my uncle was quartered in the vicinity of a château belonging to a retired general of the Grand Army, who hated an Englishman as a matter of taste, and a British officer as a matter of duty.
The French general had a charming daughter, and Rosalie, besides being belle comme le jour, was likewise what her acquaintance called tant soit peu coquette. So she made love to my uncle on every available opportunity, and of course, because he didn't care for her two pins, set her faithless heart upon him, as a woman will. To make things simpler, she was herself engaged to a young marquis in the neighbourhood. Well, my uncle, like a sensible man, did his best to keep clear of the whole thing, but he could not avoid meeting Rosalie occasionally in his walks, nor could he absolutely refuse to make her acquaintance, or refrain from perusing the letters she wrote to him, or, finally, prevent that forward young person from falling into his arms, and bursting into tears, with her head on his shoulder. The moment was, however, ill-chosen for so dramatic a scene, inasmuch as it occurred under the very noses of her father and her fiancé, both of whom, unknown to the fair wanderer, had followed Rosalie, on purpose to find out where it was she walked day after day so perseveringly.
My uncle had scarcely recovered his surprise at the first demonstration ere he was staggered by the second—"Malheureuse!" exclaimed the father; "Perfide!" groaned the lover; "Traître!" shouted the marquis; "Lâche!" growled the general. My uncle turned from one to the other, completely at a nonplus, Rosalie in the meantime clinging to his breast and imploring him passionately to save her! My uncle's waistcoat came undone—his real mistress's miniature dropped out; the sight added fuel to the fire of the belligerents. Nothing would satisfy them but his blood. In vain he protested, in vain he swore, in extremely bad French, that he had no penchant for Rosalie, had never made love to her in his life; in fact, rather disliked her than otherwise.
The Frenchmen sacréed, and fumed, and stormed at him, and jostled him, till my uncle lost all patience, shook himself clear of Rosalie, who fell fainting to the ground, knocked each of his adversaries down in turn, and walked home to his quarters, very much disgusted with the world in general, and the wilfulness of French young ladies in particular. Of course he knew perfectly well it was not to end here. He sent for Grape, then a brother subaltern, and placed his honour in that officer's hands.
No message came for two days, that interval having elapsed in consequence of a deadly quarrel between the marquis and the general as to who should take the thing up first. Grape firmly believes they decided the matter with small swords; another version is, that they played piquet for eight-and-forty hours to settle it—the best out of so many games. Be this how it may, the general appeared as the ostensible champion, and the marquis officiated as his témoin. Grape, as my uncle's second, chose pistols for the weapons, and selected a retired piece of ground in a large garden near the château as the lists. I give the conclusion in his own words:—
"Horsingham was as cool as a cucumber, and the only thing that seemed to annoy him was a possibility that the cause of his rencontre might be misrepresented to her he loved at home.
"'Tell her I was faithful to the last,' said he to me as he squeezed my hand just before I put him up. 'Tell her, if I fall, that I never loved another; that my heart is pure and spotless as that white rose, which I will wear upon it for her sake.'
"While he spoke, he plucked a white rose from a neighbouring bush, and in spite of my remonstrances fixed it in the breast of his close-fitting dark coat.
"'What are you about, Charlie?' I urged. 'This is no time for romance. Don't you know all these cursed Frenchmen are dead shots? You might as well chalk out a bull's eye over the pit of your stomach!'
"He was a romantic, foolish fellow. I can see him now, drawing himself up, and looking like a knight of the olden time, with his brightening eye, and his smooth, unruffled forehead."