“The colonel said further that, as I seemed to be ignorant of the customs of civilized countries, it appeared proper to let me know that the seconds were left to settle these preliminaries, and he supposed that I was making a jest of a grave situation.
“When I replied that he was as lacking in courtesy as the baron, the little man became polite and regretted that the prior claim of of his two friends would, he feared, deprive him of the pleasure of exacting that satisfaction which he still hoped circumstances would eventually afford him. He was queerly precise and too absurd for belief.
“I replied lightly that I should be sorry if any accident were to deprive him of the happiness of meeting me, but that I had the pleasant hope of being at his service after I had shot the count and the baron. I began to enjoy this unique situation.
“The colonel said I was most amiable—but really, my dear Mr. Greville, it is past my power to do justice to this scene. They were like the Count Considines and the Irish gentlemen in Lever’s novels.”
“And was that all?” I asked.
“No, not quite. After the colonel ceased to criticize my views of the duel, he again informed me that his own friends would call upon me to withdraw my injurious language. Then these two peacemakers departed. Now what do you think of my comedy?”
I had listened in amazement to this arrangement—three duels as the sequel of my adventure! As Merton ended, he burst into a roar of laughter.
“Now,” he said, “what will they do?—rifle, revolver, or bowie? By George, I am like D’Artagnan—my second day in Paris and three duels on my hands! Isn’t it jolly?”
That was by no means my opinion. “Mr. Merton,” I said, “I came here about this very matter.”
“Indeed! How can that be? Pray go on—and did any man ever hear of such a mix-up? Where do you come in?”