Duelling was at this period punished with death. Ney’s life was perilled, but, beloved both by officers and men, the corps insisted upon his liberation; and the times were such, that their application could not well have been rejected. Ney was liberated, but the first use he made of his freedom was to seek his antagonist and renew the interrupted contest. The parties met secretly, and the bragging fencing-master received a sabre-wound in the sword-arm that crippled him for life. When Ney subsequently rose in rank and fortune, he sought his former antagonist, and settled on him a handsome annuity.
A most vindictive duel was fought at this period by a colonel of the French Guards. This gentleman was boasting of the good fortune of never having been obliged to fight a duel. Another officer present expressed his surprise, with some indirect allusions to his want of courage; observing, “How could you avoid fighting when insulted?” The colonel replied, “that he never had given offence, and that no one had ever presumed to insult him. Moreover, that on such an occasion he would consider the character of the person who had wantonly insulted him, ere he demanded satisfaction.” Upon this statement, his interlocutor, in the most insolent manner, struck him in the face with his glove, adding, “Perhaps, sir, you will not consider this an insult!” The colonel calmly put on his hat, and walked out of the room. The following morning, however, he sent a challenge to his aggressor. When they came to the ground, the colonel wore a patch of court-plaister, of the size of a crown-piece, on the cheek which had received the blow. At the very first lounge he wounded his antagonist in the sword-arm; when, taking off the plaister, he cut off an edge of it with a pair of scissors, and, replacing it on his face, took his leave of his adversary, very politely requesting he would do him the honour of letting him know when he recovered from his wound. So soon as he heard that he was able to hold a sword, he called him out and wounded him a second time; cutting off another portion of the patch. In a like manner he called him out, fought, and wounded him, until the plaister was reduced to the size of a shilling; when he again challenged him, and ran him through the body: then, calmly contemplating the corpse, he observed, “I now may take off my plaister!” This was a cruel, but a well-merited chastisement inflicted on an insolent braggart, who little knew, at the time he thus wantonly insulted this officer, he was addressing one of the most dexterous swordsmen in the land.
During the early part of the reign of Louis XVI. society continued under the sway of former prejudices and a false notion of honour, which made it consist in upholding a character for courage, gallantry, and successful intrigue. It soon assumed another feature; and patriotism, and self-devotion in the cause of liberty and independence, became the source of many quarrels and bitter recriminations.
The last duel of any notoriety at this period was one fought by the Comte de Tilly, and for which he was apprehended by order of the connétablie and court of honour, presided over so late as 1788 by the Duke de Richelieu; which sentenced him to imprisonment in the Abbaye, whence he was liberated after a confinement of three months. This court no longer bore the reputation of a fair bench, capable of deciding the knotty point of honour; but, like all other institutions, had become inert, and corrupted to such a degree, that De Tilly gives the following account of its nature:
“This court is a real inquisition, to which the nobility of France submitted under the specious and proud pretext of being tried by their peers; an office essentially military, but which had degenerated into a judicial and civil court, where abuses were most notorious. Most of these nobles, debilitated by age and infirmities, sought to grasp, at the end of their career, a distinguished palm, which their feeble hands would soon be compelled to relinquish. Without any previous study of law or justice, their innate honour and chivalric loyalty were not a sufficient beacon to direct their course. Difficult points were elucidated by pedantic lawyers,—the natural enemies of the nobility, and strangers, from education and from principle, to the nature of the duties assigned to them: then came a host of subordinate agents, who effectually closed the gates of this tribunal until opened by a golden key. Favours and accusations were bought and sold, as were the statements that exonerated, or the evidences that condemned: in short, they were a band of mercenaries, who throve upon gall, extorted presents, robbery, and rapine.”
Such was the corrupt state of the most noble tribunal in the land, presided over by the depraved Richelieu,—a slur upon the nobility, and a disgrace to his king and country.
At the commencement of the Revolution duels were not deemed necessary, and every orator considered that his life belonged to the country. Mirabeau, who in his early days had shown frequent proofs of personal courage, no longer conceived that his honour was at stake when insulted by infuriate orators; and, although he had fought several desperate duels, was accused of cowardice by his enemies. When parliamentary decorum was lost sight of in stormy debates, the offending speaker was committed to prison. A duel between Charles de Lameth and De Castries, although the subject of it had not arisen in a public debate, was looked upon as an uncommon occurrence, and the populace burnt down the house of De Castries; while numerous deputations waited upon his adversary, to express their disapprobation of duelling in the most energetic language. At this period single combats were considered a detestable relic of aristocracy and courtly corruption. This act of violence on the part of the mob was called “a sublime movement of the people;” and Mirabeau, in one of his most eloquent speeches, thus alluded to the event:
“You must establish in the empire an implicit obedience to legitimate authorities, and repress amongst us a handful of insolent conspirators. Ah! gentlemen, it is for their own security that I invoke your severity. Are you not aware, that in this destruction, for you cannot call it the dilapidation of a proscribed house, the people bowed religiously before the image of their sovereign,—before the portrait of the chief magistrate of the nation, the executor of the laws, whom they venerated, although under the influence of a generous fury?[17] Are you not aware, that this people, in the midst of their excitement, showed their respect for age and for misfortune, by their delicate attention to Madame de Castries? Are you not aware, that the people, in quitting these premises, which they had destroyed, it may be said with order and calmness, insisted that the pockets of every individual should be searched, that no base action might tarnish a just revenge? Such is true honour, which the prejudices of gladiators, and their atrocious rites, can never display.”
It was after this event, that the ill-fated Bailly presented, as mayor of Paris, the following resolution of the municipal body:
“The municipal body, alarmed at the frequency of duels, and the disturbances which they create in the capital, have resolved, that a deputation of twelve of their members shall be sent to the National Assembly, to request that a law may be framed, as speedily as possible, against the practice of duelling, which would recall the citizens to a sense of their moral obligations, and warn them against the suggestions of sentiments incompatible with the character of a free and benevolent people.”