On the afternoon of the same day upon which I sent him my seconds, Baron Carl von Lichtenberg left Paris. So quietly had the whole affair been transacted at the Opera that not till noon the following day did my guardian hear of it.

He was rather pleased at first. In those days a young man could not have been said to make his dÉbut till he had proved his courage. Besides, my supposed insult to the Baron had been much talked about; and the affair between us, to use the Vicomte's expression, was like an abscess that required opening.

But when he heard of the three months' condition he was less pleased.

"Why three months?" said he. "In Heaven's name, are not forty-eight hours enough for any man in which to put his house in order! What business can he possibly be about which requires three months to attend to? I don't like the look of this," he finished. "The Lichtenbergs are a mad race. But as you have accepted the condition you must abide by it."

How widely the old gentleman would have opened his eyes had he known then the reason why Baron Carl von Lichtenberg required three months in which to put his house in order before the duel! But he knew as little as I of the mysterious event towards which I was being driven—I, a living man, with a will of my own.

I had fully made up my mind that death lay before me. Swords were the weapons chosen by Von Lichtenberg, and I was an expert swordsman, but my sword would never pierce Carl von Lichtenberg. Of that I was determined.

The old fatality which had attended the relationship of the Lichtenbergs and the Saluces was coming to a head. Yes; I was condemned to fight, but Fate could not condemn me to kill.

If this Baron Carl von Lichtenberg were in reality little Carl, then Von Lichtenberg had foreseen the duel; it was with this in view that he had attempted my assassination. "Peace, Von Lichtenberg," said I to myself. "No harm will come to your child through me, unless he flings himself on my sword. Even then I would let the weapon drop from my hand." And I said this not from special goodwill to the living or the dead, but just because I refused to be the instrument of Fate.

I preferred to be the victim, and for this I was prepared; nay, I felt almost certain that I should remain on the ground; and all through that summer the thought filled me with a vague melancholy, a mist that made the landscape of life more beautiful, its distances and its beauties more grand, its trivialities more futile.

Only when we come near the end do we see life as it is, and things in their just proportions. I had seen the splendour of society, the pomp of Royalty, and that thing men call the glory of the world. Did I regret to leave all this? It never even entered into my consideration. It was nothing to me. Nothing beside the passionate appeal of summer, the cry of life that came from all things bright and all things fair; from the roses of Saluce, from the trees of the forest, and the birds I loved.

Ah! that glorious summer! Etiolles was a fire of roses, and the deep, dark heart of the forest a furnace of life. The bees in the limes and the wind in the beech-trees, the chirrup and buzz of a million happy insects, filled the air with a ferment of sound, whilst in the open spaces the pools lay blue as turquoises under the vast blue dome of summer.

I spent most of my time with Franzius and Eloise. We would take our food with us, and spend long days exploring the forest, which, like some mysterious house, had ever some new room to be discovered, some passage which was not there yesterday, some window opened by fairies during the night, and giving upon a new and magic prospect.

They knew nothing of my impending encounter, nothing of the mystery that surrounded me. Happy in their love, they did not guess my sadness, and I, though their happiness filled me with pleasure, could not in the least grasp it. Never having loved, I could not see the paradise which surrounded them.

The blindest people on earth are the people who have never loved, the people who have not yet lived.

But I could not see the paradise that surrounded them; and so the summer passed on, and June drew near July.

Every few days I would go to Paris, moved by an unrest for which I could not account.

One day—it was the 26th of June—I had just reached the Place VendÔme, when Beril informed me that my guardian wished to see me.

I found the old gentleman in his dressing-gown, sorting and arranging papers.

"I am leaving Paris," said M. le Vicomte, "for my estates in Auvergne, where I have to put some things in order. From there I am starting on a visit to England."

"To England! Why?"

"My doctor has ordered me rosbif," replied the old gentleman. Then, rising, he opened the door of the room suddenly, and looked out.

"Beril has the habit of applying his ear to keyholes," he explained. "No, my dear Patrique; it is not the state of my health that is moving me to this journey, but the state of France. You know the story of the rats and the sinking ship?"

"Yes."

"Well, call me a rat."

He went on sorting his papers.

"Now," he continued, "here is a list of the shares in which I have invested your money. All good, solid English securities. Take it. Our lawyer has all the bonds and scrip. I am taking them with me to England. My address will be Long's Hotel, in Bond Street, London. What do you propose to do? Follow me there, or remain in France?"

"First of all," I replied, "why are you going like this? Nothing is threatening France——"

"Oho!" said my guardian. "And where have you been studying politics? Down amongst the rabbits at Saluce?"

"I read the papers."

"Just so, and I read the times. I have been reading them for fifty-seven years. But that is not all. Patrique, do you know that we have a mysterious friend, who interests himself in our affairs?"

"I was unaware of the fact."

"Well, the fact remains. Now, what I am going to tell you is very secret. I cannot even give you the name of our informant, as I am pledged to an oath of secrecy. But the news has come to me through the German Foreign Office. News has come to me that France is in vital danger." He rose, trembling with excitement. "News has come to me that a thunderbolt is going to fall on France, not from heaven, but from there—from there! from there!" He almost shouted the words, pointing with a shaking finger in a direction which I took to indicate Germany.

I have never seen anything more dramatic than the Vicomte's gesture—the shaking hand, the intense expression, the fire in his old eyes, as he stood with one hand grasping the dressing-gown about him, as a Roman might have grasped his toga, the other pointing to the visionary enemy.

Then he sank back in his chair.

"Well," I said, "if danger is threatening France, I remain."

"That is as you please," replied he. "I go."

"But why go so soon? Surely you might wait till events are more assured?"

"Yes," replied he, "and then they would say I had run away. As it is, I do not run away. I simply depart before the event."

"But morally——"

"There are no morals in politics."

The terrible old man was certainly right in that.

I now see what he foresaw. Not only was France not fit for war, but Paris was not fit to meet defeat. He foresaw it all, the Commune, houses torn to pieces, the Column VendÔme lying on the ground, the muffled drums, the firing-parties, the trenches filled with dead. He foresaw it all, yet made one great mistake. He imagined the whole of France to be as rotten as Paris. But then he was a boulevardier, and for him Paris was France.

"Well," I said, "I am not a politician, so the morals of politics do not affect me. France has been my mother: if she is threatened by calamity, I will remain with her. I have eaten her bread; my father and my grandfather fought in her wars; every penny I possess comes to me from her; and were I to leave her now I would feel dishonoured. Besides, I have business to attend to. You remember the appointment I have to meet on the 5th of July."

I really believe the old gentleman had quite forgotten about the duel.

"Ah!" said he. "Lichtenberg." And he struck his knee with his fist. Then he got up and paced the room in deep thought. Then, turning to me, he smiled.

"Yes," he said, "I had forgotten. This affair will keep you in Paris; but when it is over, please to remember my advice and my address in England."

"When it is over," replied I, "I may be dead."

"Oh, no," said the Vicomte; "you will not be dead. At least"—and here he smiled again—"not in my opinion."