“What would people say of me?” he exclaimed.  “No; I have buried nine already.  The fellow doesn’t seem as if he knew much; he went from school to the army, and there he was always fighting till 1815; then he went to America, and I doubt if the brute ever set foot in a fencing-alley; while I have no match with the sabre.  The sabre is his arm; I shall seem very generous in offering it to him,—­for I mean, if possible, to let him insult me,—­and I can easily run him through.  Unquestionably, it is my wisest course.  Don’t be uneasy; we shall be masters of the field in a couple of days.”

That it was that a stupid point of honor had more influence over Max than sound policy.  When Flore got home she shut herself up to cry at ease.  During the whole of that day gossip ran wild in Issoudun, and the duel between Philippe and Maxence was considered inevitable.

“Ah!  Monsieur Hochon,” said Mignonnet, who, accompanied by Carpentier, met the old man on the boulevard Baron, “we are very uneasy; for Gilet is clever with all weapons.”

“Never mind,” said the old provincial diplomatist; “Philippe has managed this thing well from the beginning.  I should never have thought that big, easy-going fellow would have succeeded as he has.  The two have rolled together like a couple of thunder-clouds.”

“Oh!” said Carpentier, “Philippe is a remarkable man.  His conduct before the Court of Peers was a masterpiece of diplomacy.”

“Well, Captain Renard,” said one of the townsfolk to Max’s friend.  “They say wolves don’t devour each other, but it seems that Max is going to set his teeth in Colonel Bridau.  That’s pretty serious among you gentlemen of the Old Guard.”

“You make fun of it, do you?  Because the poor fellow amused himself a little at night, you are all against him,” said Potel.  “But Gilet is a man who couldn’t stay in a hole like Issoudun without finding something to do.”

“Well, gentlemen,” remarked another, “Max and the colonel must play out their game.  Bridau had to avenge his brother.  Don’t you remember Max’s treachery to the poor lad?”

“Bah! nothing but an artist,” said Renard.

“But the real question is about the old man’s property,” said a third.  “They say Monsieur Gilet was laying hands on fifty thousand francs a year, when the colonel turned him out of his uncle’s house.”

“Gilet rob a man!  Come, don’t say that to any one but me, Monsieur Canivet,” cried Potel.  “If you do, I’ll make you swallow your tongue, —­and without any sauce.”

Every household in town offered prayers for the honorable Colonel Bridau.

CHAPTER XVI