“How many paces apart shall we stand?” I asked.
“Why—about twenty-five.”
“Great God!” cried Vauvert; “why, that’s point-blank range. Forty paces, messieurs! that’s quite near enough when you’re hit!”
“No; let’s call it thirty; that’s the most I can consent to.—Monsieur de Witcheritche, come and measure the ground.”
Monsieur le baron regretfully parted from his cheeses, which he laid on the grass, taking care to put his hat over them, for the rain was beginning to fall violently. He came toward us; I took my place, and he measured thirty gigantic paces, so that I could hardly see Raymond. As for my second, he was so afraid of being hit that he did not know where to go. He urged us to be very careful not to aim at the wrong man, and I reassured him. Monsieur de Witcheritche gave the signal by beating time, as if we were to play a Haydn quartette.
Raymond fired, and either the noise or downright terror felled Vauvert to the ground, where he lay with his face buried in the grass. I was not touched; I did not even hear the bullet whistle by my ears.
I suggested to my neighbor that we let it go at that.
“No, no, fire!” he cried.
“He is ein Zazar!” exclaimed the baron, in his admiration of Raymond’s courage.
I was desirous to ascertain the truth. My second still lay at full length on the ground; Monsieur de Witcheritche had thought it better to retire to a considerable distance, behind a clump of trees; my adversary turned his head aside, waiting for me to take aim, which I had no purpose of doing, although convinced that his weapons were not dangerous; but the baron’s cheeses were within two yards of me, and I discharged my pistol at them. The explosion blew the three-cornered hat away, and a multitude of scraps of paper adhered to the little Neufchâtels. While I was laughing over the end of my duel, Raymond came toward me with outstretched hand, shouting at a distance: