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I did not succeed in swallowing the drop of
brandy Norstrom handed me from his
pocket-flask as we stepped out from the carriage. The
endless preliminary formalities seemed
particularly irritating to me since I did not understand
a word of what they were talking about. How
silly all this is and what a waste of time, thought
I, how much simpler would it not be to give him
a sound thrashing à l’anglaise and be done with
it! Somebody said that the mist had now lifted
sufficiently to allow a clear sight. I was
surprised to hear it, for it seemed to me that the fog
was thicker than ever. Still I could see quite
well Vicomte Maurice standing in front of me with
his usual air of insolent nonchalance, a cigarette
between his lips, very much at his ease, thought
I. At that very moment a redbreast started
singing from the thicket behind me, I was just
wondering what on earth the little fellow had to
do so late in the year in the Bois de St. Cloud,
when Colonel Staaff put a long pistol in my hand.
“Aim low!” he whispered.
“Fire!” a sharp voice called out.
I heard a shot. I saw the Vicomte letting fall
his cigarette from his lips and Professor Labbé
rushing up to him. A moment later I found
myself sitting in Colonel Staaff’s carriage with
Norstrom on the opposite seat, a broad grin on
his face. The Colonel patted me on the shoulder
but nobody spoke.
“What has happened, why didn’t he shoot?
I am not going to accept any mercy from this
brute, I am going to challenge him in my turn, I
am going to. . . .”
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