“That isn’t enough! Forty paces!” cried Chamoureau.
“It is for Monsieur Luminot to decide.”
“Call it thirty paces!” said Monsieur Luminot, with a dignified air.
“Bah!” muttered Freluchon with a smile; “I shall be glad to believe that they won’t do each other much harm; and I will proceed to measure the paces accordingly.”
The adversaries took their places; Freluchon had measured thirty paces which were fully equal to forty.
“Why, this duel is a joke!” said Edmond to his seconds.
“I suppose you are anxious to be killed in order to give Madame Chamoureau pleasure, eh? How clever that would be!—Come, Monsieur Luminot, you are to fire first, the third time that I clap my hands—that is the signal.”
While Freluchon clapped his hands three times, Chamoureau cowered behind a tree. Monsieur Luminot fired, and his bullet lost itself in space.
When he saw that his opponent was not hit, and that it was his turn to face the fire, he took a white handkerchief from his pocket and waved it in the air, to signify that he wished to parley.
“Monsieur,” said Edmond, walking toward the former wine merchant, “are you willing to admit now that what you said with regard to Madame Dalmont and Mademoiselle Agathe was calumny pure and simple, and that those ladies deserve the esteem and respect of everybody?”