The Prince looked at him in astonishment.

“You can't get to London to-night,” said he; “there are no trains.”

“I can walk.”

“It is thirty-five miles.”

“I am accustomed to long walks.”

“At any rate you will have some supper first—in my little breakfast-room. Don't refuse, because I want you to meet Castrillon.”

“Castrillon! I should like to meet Castrillon.”

“Then I will tell him. You and he can take supper together. He doesn't want to join the big party. He has the artist's detestation of the chattering mob. How well he plays! And what a triumph for—Madame!”

“A great triumph.”

“This corridor leads to my tiny cupboard—the merest cupboard! Follow me.” They went through several doors and up several small staircases till they reached a small apartment furnished in old blue damask, heavily fringed with tarnished gold and silver decorations.

“A few souvenirs of my hereditary castle in Alberia,” explained the Prince; “they relieve my sense of exile.”

He walked across the floor and tapped on what appeared to be a portion of the wall.

“We are here,” said he.

The secret door was opened, and Castrillon, still wearing his costume as the Chevalier, joined them. If one may believe Prince d'Alchingen's account of this unfortunate meeting, the young men greeted each other with composure. D'Alchingen declares that he studied Orange to the depths of his soul, and he does him the justice to say that he did not make a movement or utter a word which denoted the least emotion. There was not any sort of alteration in his countenance, and he led the conversation with a tranquillity and a gaiety really enchanting. When the supper was served, His Excellency had no hesitation in leaving the rivals together—so convinced was he that they would remain on good terms.

“M. de Castrillon,” said Orange, when the Prince had gone, “I cannot sit down at supper with you. We have to settle an old score.”

Castrillon bowed:

“I am here to learn your wishes. I have heard from several sources that you wished to see me. If you have anything to say, pray say it quickly, because—I have an appointment with Mrs. Parflete.”

“Will you do me the favour to leave that lady's name out of the discussion?”

“I see no reason why I should do you favours, M. de HausÉe. But I am quite ready to atone for my indifference by any course of action which could satisfy the most scrupulous delicacy.”

“There is but one course of action open to us.”

“I shall be happy to have the honour of meeting you on your own terms. But,” he added, contemptuously, “we are both wasting our time over a worthless woman. She was seen leaving your lodgings on Wednesday last. I have just heard this. And I received, before the play began this evening, a letter from her fixing a rendez-vous for two o'clock. If you doubt me I can show you the letter. I am as much disappointed as you are. She has fooled us both. Before God I could have sworn she was a religious and modest woman.”

His chagrin was so genuine that it was impossible to doubt his good faith.

“It is a lie,” said Orange; “she was never at my lodgings.”

“I don't call you a liar, M. de HausÉe, but I can prove my words, whereas it might be difficult to prove yours. I can show you the letter.”

“She never wrote it.”

Castrillon sat on the edge of the table, and poured out some wine.

“That is what I said,” he replied, “when I read it. So long as we are going to fight, let it be because we hate each other, and not because we have both been deceived by the same prude.”

“In other words,” said Orange, quietly, “you wish to drive a good bargain, knowing that whether you utter one insult or twenty, I can but fight you once.”

“A l'outrance, however,” answered Castrillon, dipping a biscuit into the glass.

“Yes, À l'outrance.”

“This being the case, let me tell you a few of my ideas. You find life very hard. I find it altogether amusing. I don't love a woman the less when I cease to honour her. I don't honour a man the less when I detest him. If you should kill me, M. de HausÉe, it will be the most respectable occurrence in my immortality. But if I should kill you, it will be the vile conclusion of an exemplary career.”

“Your conversation is most entertaining, Monsieur. I am, unhappily, in no mood to listen to it. May I ask you to meet me to-morrow with your second at three o'clock at Calais? We can then go on to Dunkerque and settle this difference.”

“I am perfectly agreeable.”

They arranged a few more details and parted. The interview, which took place in French, is not easily reproduced in English. Orange wrote one account of the scene, and Castrillon confided another to Prince d'Alchingen, and the above is probably as nearly as possible a faithful description of what actually passed.

Robert left Hadley Lodge, and plunged through the darkness toward London. He reached Vigo Street about seven o'clock in the morning. It was Sunday, and the streets were silent. He let himself into the house with a latch-key, and groped his way up the creaking unlit staircase. On entering his room, the draught between the open window and the door set all his papers whirling from his writing-table, and, by a strange accident, dislodged his crucifix from its nail. It fell to the ground, and when he picked it up, the small Figure was broken. This accident seemed an ill omen, but he put it from his thoughts, and scrawled a hasty letter to Charles Aumerle, asking him to be his second. This he delivered himself at Aumerle's chambers in St. James's Place, saying that he would call for an answer at nine. But Aumerle, ever fond of adventures, was at Vigo Street at half-past eight.

“If you are bent upon it,” said he, “I will do everything in my power to see it through. I think you are quite right. Every one will say the same.”

The two left for Calais by the first boat that morning. Castrillon, and Isidore, and a young Frenchman, M. de Lamoignon, were on board also. At Calais the two seconds conferred, and the duel was arranged to take place in a field near Dunkerque on the following morning. On the following morning, the four men met. The combatants were placed at fifteen paces from each other. They fired simultaneously and Castrillon fell—mortally wounded.