The leading trait in the French national character is doubtless gaiety. We have seen how, after the first sentiment of horror excited by the guillotine had subsided, ladies in Paris wore miniature guillotines {353} as ear-rings; and we might have mentioned the case of a famous French epicure who used a small guillotine for cutting up his dinner. In like manner duels have been made the subject of endless pleasantries in France, and a good-sized volume could be made up of duelling anecdotes. A few specimens, however, must suffice us here.
M. de Langerie and M. de Montendre, both exceedingly ugly, were drawn up against each other in single combat. Suddenly de Langerie exclaimed: “I cannot fight you. You really must excuse me. I have an invincible reason.” “And what is it, pray?” inquired the foe. “Why, this: if I fight, I shall, to all appearances, kill you, and remain the ugliest man in the kingdom.” De Montendre yielded. A ballad-writer, known by numerous successes, had a quarrel. An intimate friend interposed his authority, ascertained the exact nature of the difference, and promised to settle it. A few moments afterwards he returned. “The affair,” he said “is arranged. I had only to speak and we were instantly agreed.” “That is good,” replied the writer of ballads, visibly relieved. “Yes,” said the amiable intercessor, grasping his friend by the hand; “it is arranged. You fight to-morrow morning at five.”
A fastidious duellist, who was ready to fight about any trifle, “to find a quarrel in a straw,” as Hamlet expresses it, had taken umbrage at something said by an entirely inoffensive man. He sent his seconds to wait upon this person and to say that he would fight him at a distance of twenty-five paces. “I agree,” replied the recipient of the challenge; “but since you have regulated the distance, the choice of arms must rest with me—I name the sword.”
Romieu, renowned for his spirit of pleasantry, received one day, from a barren scribbler who had been educated at the École de Droit, the manuscript of a play accompanied by the following letter: “Sir,—I herewith submit a piece to which I beg you to give your very careful attention. I accept beforehand any alterations which you may think fit to make in it, with this exception—that I am most punctilious about the philosophical reflections remaining untouched.” A few days afterwards the author received back his manuscript with this reply: “Sir,—I have read your work with the greatest attention. I leave to you the choice of arms.” Fortunately it was ink alone, and not blood, which was spilt in the affair.
At the time when Sainte-Beuve was contributing to the Globe he quarrelled with a member of the staff of that journal. A duel was arranged; when the combatants arrived on the ground it was raining in torrents; Sainte-Beuve had come provided with an umbrella and with flint pistols of the sixteenth century. At the moment when the adversaries were to pull their triggers Sainte-Beuve was still carefully shielding himself from the elements with his umbrella. The seconds protested, but Sainte-Beuve refused to get wet. “I don’t mind being killed,” he exclaimed; “but I decline to catch cold.” The duel then proceeded, Sainte-Beuve levelling his pistol with one hand and holding up his umbrella with the other. Four shots were exchanged, but without injury on either side.
Cyrano de Bergerac, of whom mention has already been made, was the most ferocious duellist of his time. His nose, of inordinate length, had received such a number of dents that it was quite a curiosity. He was very touchy on this subject, and would allow no one to look at him pointedly. More than ten men expiated with their lives some satirical glance at him, or some ill-sounding word uttered in his presence.
A certain bravo challenged an apothecary, by whom he conceived himself insulted. The duel was arranged, and the adversaries duly met, each accompanied by two seconds. One of the seconds of the aggrieved man held out a pair of swords, and the other a brace of pistols.
“Sir,” cried the bravo, “choose weapons. Pistol and sword are the same thing to me.” “That is all very well,” replied the apothecary, “but I do not see why you should impose your arms upon me; I think I have as much right, and more, to impose mine on you.” “Good. What are your arms?” was the reply. The apothecary took a little box from his pocket, opened it, and presented it to his adversary. “There are two pills,” he said: “one is poisoned and the other harmless. Choose!” The affair ended in laughter.
The Marquis de Rivarolles, who had just lost one of his legs in battle, uttered certain words offensive to Madillan, Schomberg’s aide-de-camp. He was challenged. The marquis appointed his surgeon to act as second. The surgeon promptly waited upon Madillan, but introduced himself without mentioning either his profession or the reply he was authorised to give. He simply displayed his case of surgical instruments. Madillan, mystified, inquired whether the visitor was the representative of de Rivarolles. “I am,” he said. “M. de Rivarolles is quite ready to fight {354} you, according to your desire; but, convinced that a man as brave and generous as yourself would not like to fight at a disproportionate advantage, he has ordered me to take one of your legs off beforehand, so that the chances between you will be equal.” Madillan was enraged at this extraordinary proposition; but the duel was, in the end, prevented by Marshal de Schomberg, who succeeded in reconciling the adversaries.
Voltaire had recourse to a custom which he had himself energetically condemned. Dining one day at the Duke de Sully’s, he happened, in the course of a discussion, to raise his voice a little. “Who is that young man contradicting me so loudly?” asked the Chevalier de Rohan-Chabot. “He is a man,” replied Voltaire, “who does not boast a great name, but who honours the name he bears.” The chevalier did not reply, but a few days afterwards he caused Voltaire to be waylaid and beaten by half a dozen ruffians. After having vainly tried to persuade the Duke de Sully to espouse his cause, Voltaire determined to trust solely to his own personal courage. He took fencing-lessons, and as soon as he was able to handle a sword, waited upon the chevalier in his box at the Théâtre Français. “Sir,” he said, “unless some business affair has caused you to forget the insult which I suffered at your hands, I hope you will afford me satisfaction.” This was one of those arrows, barbed with irony, which Voltaire knew so well how to throw. “Some business affair” was a phrase which the chevalier could not decently bear. He accepted the challenge, but without intending to fight. Instead of crossing swords with the young poet he caused him to be thrown into the Bastille for having presumed to call out so great a personage.