“Now,” said Max, “let us go on with the toasts.”

The two adversaries had not raised their voices above the tone of ordinary conversation; there was nothing solemn in the affair except the dead silence in which it took place.

“Look here, you others!” cried Philippe, addressing the soldiers who stood behind the officers; “remember that our affairs don’t concern the bourgeoisie—­not a word, therefore, on what goes on here.  It is for the Old Guard only.”

“They’ll obey orders, colonel,” said Renard.  “I’ll answer for them.”

“Long live His little one!  May he reign over France!” cried Potel.

“Death to Englishmen!” cried Carpentier.

That toast was received with prodigious applause.

“Shame on Hudson Lowe,” said Captain Renard.

The dessert passed off well; the libations were plentiful.  The antagonists and their four seconds made it a point of honor that a duel, involving so large a fortune, and the reputation of two men noted for their courage, should not appear the result of an ordinary squabble.  No two gentlemen could have behaved better than Philippe and Max; in this respect the anxious waiting of the young men and townspeople grouped about the market-place was balked.  All the guests, like true soldiers, kept silence as to the episode which took place at dessert.  At ten o’clock that night the two adversaries were informed that the sabre was the weapon agreed upon by the seconds; the place chosen for the rendezvous was behind the chancel of the church of the Capuchins at eight o’clock the next morning.  Goddet, who was at the banquet in his quality of former army surgeon, was requested to be present at the meeting.  The seconds agreed that, no matter what might happen, the combat should last only ten minutes.

At eleven o’clock that night, to Colonel Bridau’s amazement, Monsieur Hochon appeared at his rooms just as he was going to bed, escorting Madame Hochon.

“We know what has happened,” said the old lady, with her eyes full of tears, “and I have come to entreat you not to leave the house to-morrow morning without saying your prayers.  Lift your soul to God!”

“Yes, madame,” said Philippe, to whom old Hochon made a sign from behind his wife’s back.

“That is not all,” said Agathe’s godmother.  “I stand in the place of your poor mother, and I divest myself, for you, of a thing which I hold most precious,—­here,” she went on, holding towards Philippe a tooth, fastened upon a piece of black velvet embroidered in gold, to which she had sewn a pair of green strings.  Having shown it to him, she replaced it in a little bag.  “It is a relic of Sainte Solange, the patron saint of Berry,” she said, “I saved it during the Revolution; wear it on your breast to-morrow.”

“Will it protect me from a sabre-thrust?” asked Philippe.

“Yes,” replied the old lady.

“Then I have no right to wear that accoutrement any more than if it were a cuirass,” cried Agathe’s son.