“Why, you see,” says Poinsinet, quite delighted, “it was so dark that I did not know with whom I was engaged; although, corbleu, I DID FOR one or two of the fellows.” And after a little more of such conversation, during which he was fully persuaded that he had done for a dozen of the enemy at least, Poinsinet went to bed, his little person trembling with fright and pleasure; and he fell asleep, and dreamed of rescuing ladies, and destroying monsters, like a second Amadis de Gaul.
When he awoke in the morning, he found a party of his friends in his room: one was examining his coat and waistcoat; another was casting many curious glances at his inexpressibles. “Look here!” said this gentleman, holding up the garment to the light; “one—two—three gashes! I am hanged if the cowards did not aim at Poinsinet’s legs! There are four holes in the sword arm of his coat, and seven have gone right through coat and waistcoat. Good heaven! Poinsinet, have you had a surgeon to your wounds?”
“Wounds!” said the little man, springing up, “I don’t know—that is, I hope—that is—O Lord! O Lord! I hope I’m not wounded!” and, after a proper examination, he discovered he was not.
“Thank heaven! thank heaven!” said one of the wags (who, indeed, during the slumbers of Poinsinet had been occupied in making these very holes through the garments of that individual), “if you have escaped, it is by a miracle. Alas! alas! all your enemies have not been so lucky.”
“How! is anybody wounded?” said Poinsinet.
“My dearest friend, prepare yourself; that unhappy man who came to revenge his menaced honor—that gallant officer—that injured husband, Colonel Count de Cartentierce—”
“Well?”
“IS NO MORE! he died this morning, pierced through with nineteen wounds from your hand, and calling upon his country to revenge his murder.”
When this awful sentence was pronounced, all the auditory gave a pathetic and simultaneous sob; and as for Poinsinet, he sank back on his bed with a howl of terror, which would have melted a Visigoth to tears, or to laughter. As soon as his terror and remorse had, in some degree, subsided, his comrades spoke to him of the necessity of making his escape; and, huddling on his clothes, and bidding them all a tender adieu, he set off, incontinently, without his breakfast, for England, America, or Russia, not knowing exactly which.
One of his companions agreed to accompany him on a part of this journey,—that is, as far as the barrier of St. Denis, which is, as everybody knows, on the high road to Dover; and there, being tolerably secure, they entered a tavern for breakfast; which meal, the last that he ever was to take, perhaps, in his native city, Poinsinet was just about to discuss, when, behold! a gentleman entered the apartment where Poinsinet and his friend were seated, and, drawing from his pocket a paper, with “AU NOM DU ROY” flourished on the top, read from it, or rather from Poinsinet’s own figure, his exact signalement, laid his hand on his shoulder, and arrested him in the name of the King, and of the provost-marshal of Paris. “I arrest you, sir,” said he, gravely, “with regret; you have slain, with seventeen wounds, in single combat, Colonel Count de Cartentierce, one of his Majesty’s household; and, as his murderer, you fall under the immediate authority of the provost-marshal, and die without trial or benefit of clergy.”