He departed for Auvergne next day, he and Beril, and a pile of luggage. A number of people saw him off from the station, including myself.

They did not see a rat leaving a sinking ship: they saw a jovial old gentleman, with a cigar in his mouth, entering a first-class carriage, a nobleman departing to visit his estates. He was to be back in a month, so he said; and the last I saw of him was a jovial red face, and a hand waving a copy of the "Charivari" to the little crowd of friends he had left on the platform.

There was a touch of humour in that; and I could not help laughing, as I turned home, at this man, so great in some ways, so little in others, so kind, so heartless, so bad, so good; and such a perfect "shuffler." He was by nature, above all things, an escaper from difficulties. I could not help remembering how he had shuffled out of the painful duty of breaking the news of my father's death to me; how he had shuffled out of the responsibility of my education and bringing up; a hundred other instances occurred to me, leading up to this last business of shuffling out of France at the first scent of disaster. I am nearly sure that had he been with the army he would have found some means of shuffling it out of the trap at Sedan; at all events, I am perfectly certain he would have escaped himself.

What perplexed me was the problem as to how he had obtained his news from the German Foreign Office. Little as I knew of the methods of the Chancelleries of Europe, a fool would understand that such vital, such awful information could not escape from the innermost sanctum of the Berlin Chancellerie—that is to say, if it were real. I was thrown back on the hypothesis that it was false—a canard let escape purposefully, one of Bismarck's wild ducks that were always stringing in flight across Europe, set free by that marvellous man, the only man of his age, or any other, perhaps, who could bring his country in touch with war for some political reason, and then fend her off unhurt.

I returned to the Place VendÔme, where I found Joubert in a despondent mood. The departure of Beril had taken from him one of his interests in life. He had come to look upon his daily fight with Beril as an accompaniment to the digestion of his daily bread. The two old fellows had grown almost like man and wife, as far as nagging goes; they had hurled boots at each other, squabbled perpetually, vilified each other, and once had come to blows. Now that the separation had occurred, the great blank caused by it appeared in Joubert's face.

Joubert had many good qualities; among others, he was a born and perfect swordsman. When quite young, and stationed in Paris, he had put in a good deal of his spare time at Carduso's School of Arms, then situated near the Chinese Baths. He made a little money this way, instructing young bloods in the art of self-defence; and he had learnt many tricks from Carduso, that magician of whom it has been said that he was born with a rapier in his hand. I owed a good deal of my own proficiency with the sword to Joubert, who, even when I was a child, had shown me the difference of carte and tierce with my little cane.

To-day an idea struck me.

"Joubert," said I.

"Monsieur!" replied Joubert.

"Attention."

"Ah, oui, attention," grumbled Joubert, going on with his business, which happened to be the brushing of a coat. "I'm attending to the moths that have got in your overcoat."

"Leave them alone, and see here." I took a pair of foils from the wall, and presented one of them by the hilt.

"Catch hold. I want a lesson."

"There you go, there you go!" said Joubert, putting the foil under his arm, and finishing the coat. "Always when I am busy, and monsieur's clothes——"

"Never mind monsieur's clothes," I replied. "I want a lesson. See here: do you remember telling me a trick of Carduso's——"

"A hundred. Which one?"

"A trick of pinking a man in a certain place in the arm, where the big nerve runs, so that his arm is paralysed, and he can't go on fighting."

"Mais oui," said the old fellow, bending the rapier with the button on the tip of his boot.

"Well, show me it."

"Aha!" said Joubert, his eyes lighting up, "la monsieur going to fight?"

"Yes; it has come to that, Joubert. It seems that a man cannot live quietly in this Paris of yours without fighting for his life like some beast in an African forest. But I don't want to kill my man—only to put him out of action."

"And why not kill him?" asked Joubert. "Mordieu, what is the use of fighting, else? Why take a sword in your hand if you only want to pay him compliments?"

"Never mind. I don't want to kill him."

"And who is the gentleman whom you desire to scratch?"

"I will tell you that the morning of the affair, the 5th of July. We meet in the Bois de Boulogne. I will let you drive me, and you will see the business."

"Good!" said Joubert. "If one cannot watch lions fighting, let us then watch cats. Attention!"

Joubert was a bit over seventy, but he had the dexterity and almost the quickness of a young man. The spot to be reached is just over the bone half way down the arm. A nerve—I think they call it the musculo spiral—winds round the bone here. If you can pierce it, you entirely demoralise your opponent. Just as a bullet-wound in the hand reduces a strong man into the condition of a hysterical woman, so does a touch here.

The button of Joubert's foil sent a tingle down my arm, proclaiming that the spot had been reached.

Then I returned the compliment.

We practised for half an hour, and again on the next day.

And day followed day, till the 4th of July broke over Paris, cloudless and perfect.

I was up early, and at ten o'clock I called upon De Brissac at his rooms, the Rue Helder.

"Ah!" said he, "I'm glad to see you."

"How so?" replied I, for his manner indicated something more than an ordinary greeting.

"Well, as a matter of fact," replied he, "I heard last night—in fact, it was generally spoken of on the Boulevards—that you had arranged the matter amicably with the Baron von Lichtenberg."

"That I had arranged the matter?"

"People say you have apologised to him."

"I apologise? Why, my dear sir, it was he who insulted me! He struck me on the shoulder with his glove. How, then, could I apologise?"

"Not for that, but for the occurrence at the Mirlitons. So it is a canard?"

"The wildest."

"Ah, I thought so. And I think I know who set it flying—De Coigny."

"I would not be surprised; he is an old enemy of mine."

"I am certain of it," said De Brissac, "For M. de Champfleury, who is acting with me also as your second, told me that the report came to a friend of his from the mouth of M. de Coigny."

"De Brissac," I said, "bring with you another friend—someone not indisposed to De Coigny—to-morrow."

"Why?"

"M. de Coigny——" Then I stopped, for the determination I had come to was of such a nature that I thought it best to leave the declaration of it till we were on the ground.

"Why?" asked again De Brissac.

"Oh, just as a spectator. It will be worth his while, for, if I mistake not, there will be something worth seeing to-morrow morning at seven o'clock in the Avenue of the Minimes, just by the pond, for that is, I believe, our place of meeting."

De Brissac bowed.

"I will bring a friend," said he.

Little did I think of the surprising thing that friend would see; and little did De Brissac dream that the duel in which he was to take part would be noticeable above all other duels in the history of duelling even unto this day.

"Till to-morrow, at seven, then," said I.

"Till to-morrow," replied De Brissac.

Then I took my departure.

The Vicomte, before starting on his visit to Auvergne, had cleared his money and his property out of Paris as far as possible, but he had left the hotel in the Place VendÔme "all standing," as the sailors say. To have removed his furniture, his horses, and his equipages would have been to declare his hand; and if by any chance the storm had not burst and France had emerged from her difficulties, the man who had taken shelter, or, in plainer words, taken flight, would have found a very curious welcome on his return to the beloved Boulevards. He had foresees everything, even the chance of success, and he had prepared for everything, always with his mind's eye on failure.

So I had a stable full of horses at my disposal, and a house full of servants; all the bills were paid; there was unlimited credit, and I had ten thousand francs in my pocketbook, which he had left with me in case of eventualities.

I returned from De Brissac's to the Place VendÔme, ordered out a britzka and a pair of swift horses, and told the coachman to take me to Etiolles.

I wished to shake hands with Franzius and kiss Eloise again. I had also determined to tell them of what was to happen on the morrow.

We passed through Bercy, and retook the same road I had taken that morning in May when I had gone down to make arrangements for Eloise's reception at the Pavilion. It was the same road, but dressed now in the glory of summer.

Heavens! when I think of that road, so peaceful, the houses wearing such a contented look, the flowers in the garden, the little children playing on the doorsteps; that road so soon to resound to the tramp of the German hordes, and the drums of war, the rolling of artillery and baggage-wagons—when I think of that scene of peace and what followed!

And now it is all so far away, so many summers have re-dressed that road again; and what of it all remains? Only an old story with which Father Maboeuf bores the drinkers at the Grape Inn, of Champrosay; a tale which old men in Germany tell the grandchildren; a song or two. Scarcely that.

When I reached the Pavilion, Franzius and Eloise were not there. Madame Ancelot said they had taken money and food with them, and "gone off." They often did this, sometimes for a couple of days: the gipsy that was in Franzius' feet required a change. This strange pair, who were now more than ever like lovers, would "go off," spend days in the open, and stop at village inns at night. Franzius had infected his companion with the love of freedom. He was now famous. Another man in his position would have been at Biarritz or Trouville, basking in the social sun, but the only sun desired by Franzius was the sun of heaven. He refused to be lionised. A Bohemian to the ends of his fingers, a gipsy to the soles of his boots, brown as a berry with the sun and open air, carrying his violin under his arm: had you met him on a country road, you would never have suspected him to be Franzius, the composer of "Undine," who, had he chosen, could, with a few sweeps of his bow on a concert platform, have gained two thousand francs on a summer's afternoon.

"They did not say when they would be back?"

"No," replied Madame Ancelot; "but they won't be back to-day, or maybe to-morrow: they took a ham with them."

"Ah!"

"And a chicken. It was in a basket that madame carried. They went a way through the woods, but that leads everywhere; and one can't say whether they passed last night at Champrosay or at some cottage. For myself, I believe they sometimes sleep in the woods, and don't trouble about houses at all."

To sleep in God's open air seemed the last act of madness to Madame Ancelot, who, a peasant born and bred, was accustomed, by experience and from tradition, to sleep in a bedroom almost hermetically sealed.

I had myself suspected the Franzius' of sleeping on occasion in barns and hayricks, but I said nothing.

I was depressed at not finding the two people I loved most on earth, for it was now quite beyond chance that I would meet them before to-morrow morning; and after to-morrow morning—— Ah, well—after to-morrow morning——

I left the Pavilion and walked into the chÂteau gardens. These gardens, beloved by Eloise, kept our house in the Place VendÔme supplied with flowers. They were very old. M. de Sartines and M. de Maupeon had walked here amidst the roses, discussing State intrigues; the full skirts of the Duchesse de Gramont had swept that lawn; and on that stone seat, under the great fig-trees' cave-like shelter, the Princesse de GuemenÉe had sat amidst brocaded cushions, and there had received the news of the Duc de Choiseul's disgrace; and far beyond that went the history of these walks, these lawns, these fountains playing in the sun; these old, old walls, warmed by the suns of two hundred summers; rich red walls, moss-lined, to which the peach-trees still clung as they had clung when La ValliÈre was still a girl, when La Fontaine was still a man, and Monsieur Fouquet held his court at Vaux.

No poet has written such lovely things as Time had written here in those three lovely books—the rose garden, the sunk garden, and the Dutch garden of Saluce; books whose leaves in summer were ever being turned over by the idle fingers of the wind. Years of desolation had completed their charm, just as years of death the charm of some vanished poet's works.

Peopled with ghosts and flowers, voices of fountains and voices of birds, walking there alone on a summer's day one would scarcely have dared to call out, lest some silvery voice made answer, or some white hand from amidst the rose-bushes, some hand once whiter than the white rose, some voice once sweeter than the voices of the birds.

"And Marianne de l'Orme, how is she—the Austrian, and she whom they call the Flower of Light? Diane de Christeuil, Colombe de Gaillefontaine, Aloise de Gondalaurier, sweet-named ghosts: where are ye?"

"Who knows?" would reply the breeze in the rose-bushes. "They are here, they are here," the birds in the trees.

Here had walked, in times long past, the ladies of the house of Saluce. This family, from which I drew half my being, had for me a charm and mystery beyond expression. I was a Mahon, all my traditions were Irish; yet I was linked with this family, of whom all were dead, this family whose stately history went back into the remote past.

I had never seen my mother; I had never seen a living Saluce; they were all vanished. Nothing remained but their pictures and their names, yet I had come from them in part. They were my ancestors, and my likeness had walked the earth, in the form of Philippe de Saluce, over two hundred years before I was born; and my likeness in the form of Philippe de Saluce had—— We know what he had done.

The doors of the chÂteau were open, and some workmen were busy in the hall, repairing the oakwork. They were talking and laughing, and their voices had set the echo chattering in the gallery above.

Marianne seemed mocking them; and as I gave them good-day and examined their work her voice seemed mocking mine.

Then I left the men, and came upstairs to look at the place once again. I passed from corridor to corridor, and at last found the turret-room whither I had come that day with Eloise.

It was just the same, everything in exactly the same place, even to the books on the table. I examined them: some were quite modern, drawings by Gavarni and De Musset's poems; some were more antique.

Amongst them was a work in gilded boards, the history of the Saluce family, written by one Armand de Saluce, in the year 1820, and dedicated rather fulsomely to the then head of the house.

He was some poor relation evidently, Armand, and his language was very flowery; and from his little book one might have imagined the Saluces a family of saints and lambs.

I turned the pages this way and that, till I found what he had to say about Philippe.

Philippe de Saluce, according to Armand, had died in consequence of an unfortunate love-affair.

It did not say he had drowned his fiancÉe—that he was a murderer.

With the book in my hand I fell asleep, lulled by the drowsy warmth of the room, and the softness of the cushions of the window-seat.

When I awoke the light had changed, and, looking at my watch, I found it to be nearly six o'clock.

I rose, put the book on the table, and came downstairs.

The workmen had gone, and they had locked the door!

Not for a few moments did my position realise itself to me.

Every door I knew to be barred and locked; every window was also barred on the ground floor, except those that were too narrow for a man's entry or exit. No one would come till the morning. Madame Ancelot would think I had returned to Paris by train, and send the carriage back. I was trapped in the chÂteau of Saluce; and at seven o'clock to-morrow I had to meet Von Lichtenberg, or be dishonoured for life!

A nice situation, truly!

I laughed out loud from pure rage and vexation, and the echo above returned my laughter mockingly.

In my despair I tried all the doors, uselessly; they were solid as the doors of the Bastille.

Then I remembered a window that was not barred—the stained-glass window of the banqueting-room. It was fifteen feet from the ground, but had it been more I would have risked it.

I went to the banqueting-room, and stood before the window, my only way to freedom and honour. It was a lovely creation of stained glass. The arms of the Saluces and the arms of the noble families with whom they were connected stood there, the Lichtenbergs amidst the rest. The evening light, shining through the stained glass, repeated the colours vaguely upon the polished parquet of the floor. The light, shining through the tender colours of the glass, brought with it an indefinable sadness. To break this thing would be like striking the dead, dishonouring the past. An act of vandalism beyond name.

This window was more than a window: it was a barrier between me and my fate. The arms of the Lichtenbergs, the Saluces, the Montmorencies, had drawn themselves up before me; it was as if they would stand between me and the encounter of the morrow, but only as a menace. They could offer no real opposition to my physical acts; they could only say, "Take warning!"

Then, with the brutality of your kind-hearted man, who, condemned to kill an animal, and loathing the business, strikes fiercely and blindly, causing more destruction than necessary, I seized a heavy bronze bar from the fireplace and attacked the window. The blows echoed from the roof—smash! smash!—and the chattering of falling glass came from the garden-walk outside; the leadwork which had held the glass fragments together bulged out, and had to be broken out by incessant blows, which brought down shower after shower of glass fragments from that part of the window which lay above the line of my attack; and lo! when I had once entered on the business, all remorse fled, and a fury for destruction rose in my heart that I had never felt before, nor had I even suspected my own capacity for the feeling. So, perhaps, Philippe de Saluce felt when he destroyed his lover in a sudden accession of fury. I do not know, but I know that from behind some veil in my mind a new man stepped out, as Monsieur Hyde stepped from the soul of Monsieur Jekyll, and that I smashed and smashed for the pure pleasure, and from the vicious lust of destruction.

Condemned to act by Fate, I revenged myself after the fashion of a tiger. Then, tearing a brocaded curtain down from its attachments, I spread it over the glass-splintered edge of the sill, crawled over it, lowered myself, dropped, and was free.

As I stood on the garden-path, looking up at the ruin I had accomplished, I heard footsteps.

The workmen were returning.

"Ah, mon Dieu, monsieur!" cried the chief ouvrier, "we had forgotten you. Not till five minutes ago did Jacques remember that monsieur had not left the house when we bolted the door and came away; so we returned, running all the way from Etiolles."

So my destruction of the window had been in vain, it would seem! Not so; for, just as at a first debauch the demon of drunkenness enters a man's heart, so at this orgie of destruction did the demon of destruction enter mine.

"Joubert," said I that night, as I went to bed, "you have everything ready for to-morrow?"

"All is ready," replied Joubert.

"You will call me at half-past five."

"Yes, monsieur. And your promise?"

"My promise?"

"To tell me with whom you are going to fight?"

"Ah, yes! Well, I have two affairs on to-morrow morning. I am going to scratch Baron Carl von Lichtenberg on the arm, and I am going to drive my sword through M. de Coigny's heart."

"Von Lichtenberg!" cried Joubert. "You are going to fight with a Lichtenberg, one of that accursed lot!"

"I am going to fight with M. de Coigny. We have been enemies for years; he has mixed himself in this affair; he has offered himself up as a sacrifice——"

"Mon Dieu!" cried the old fellow, drawing back, "is it you that are speaking, or the devil?"

I was sitting up in bed; and in a mirror across the room I saw the wan reflection of my own face, and started at the expression of wrath and black hatred portrayed there.

I had hated De Coigny for years, but not till now did I know my own capacity for hate. Thus we go through life for years not knowing, till some day some hand draws the curtain back, holds up the mirror, reveals the other man, the Monsieur Hyde who has hidden himself at birth in the heart of Monsieur Jekyll.