“That’s all right,” said I; “each of us will have his own pistols.”
“No, no! put yours back in your pocket; we must use mine. You understand what an advantage I should have in using one of my pistols against one of yours, which are two inches shorter.”
“Your behavior is truly noble. Very well, since you insist upon it.”
“I do, monsieur; besides, I have the choice of weapons, and I fight with none but my own.”
“Very well; let us call our friends to load them.”
I turned to look for Vauvert, who, as soon as we produced our pistols, had walked away in the direction of the highroad and could with difficulty be induced to come near us.
“The pistols are loaded,” said Raymond; “I always look after that in advance.”
“Ordinarily, my dear neighbor, that is the duty of the seconds.”
“Oh! but I don’t trust anybody but myself with that. Besides, my friend Witcheritche has examined them;—isn’t that so, monsieur le baron?”
The baron was busily engaged in wrapping in two thicknesses of paper some small Neufchâtel cheeses, which he seemed to fear would be dissolved in his pocket by the rain; so he replied to my adversary’s question only by a smile of assent. Everything that I saw tended to confirm my suspicions: Raymond’s valor was unnatural; his insistence upon using his own pistols, the pains he had taken to load them at home, certainly implied some trickery on his part, which I was determined. He handed me his pistols and asked me to choose one.