The deaf gardener, utterly unconscious of approaching footsteps, went on watering his flowers till Lieutenant Feraud thumped him on the back.  Beholding suddenly an infuriated man, flourishing a big sabre, the old chap, trembling in all his limbs, dropped the watering pot.  At once Lieutenant Feraud kicked it away with great animosity; then seizing the gardener by the throat, backed him against a tree and held him there shouting in his ear: 

“Stay here and look on.  You understand you’ve got to look on.  Don’t dare budge from the spot.”

Lieutenant D’Hubert, coming slowly down the walk, unclasped his dolman with undisguised reluctance.  Even then, with his hand already on his sword, he hesitated to draw, till a roar “En garde, fichtre! What do you think you came here for?” and the rush of his adversary forced him to put himself as quickly as possible in a posture of defence.

The angry clash of arms filled that prim garden, which hitherto had known no more warlike sound than the click of clipping shears; and presently the upper part of an old lady’s body was projected out of a window upstairs.  She flung her arms above her white cap, and began scolding in a thin, cracked voice.  The gardener remained glued to the tree looking on, his toothless mouth open in idiotic astonishment, and a little farther up the walk the pretty girl, as if held by a spell, ran to and fro on a small grass plot, wringing her hands and muttering crazily.  She did not rush between the combatants.  The onslaughts of Lieutenant Feraud were so fierce that her heart failed her.

Lieutenant D’Hubert, his faculties concentrated upon defence, needed all his skill and science of the sword to stop the rushes of his adversary.  Twice already he had had to break ground.

[Illustration:  028.jpg “The angry clash of arms filled that prim garden”]

It bothered him to feel his foothold made insecure by the round dry gravel of the path rolling under the hard soles of his boots.  This was most unsuitable ground, he thought, keeping a watchful, narrowed gaze shaded by long eyelashes upon the fiery staring eyeballs of his thick-set adversary.  This absurd affair would ruin his reputation of a sensible, steady, promising young officer.  It would damage, at any rate, his immediate prospects and lose him the good will of his general.  These worldly preoccupations were no doubt misplaced in view of the solemnity of the moment.  For a duel whether regarded as a ceremony in the cult of honour or even when regrettably casual and reduced in its moral essence to a distinguished form of manly sport, demands perfect singleness of intention, a homicidal austerity of mood.  On the other hand, this vivid concern for the future in a man occupied in keeping sudden death at sword’s length from his breast, had not a bad effect, inasmuch as it began to rouse the slow anger of Lieutenant D’Hubert.  Some seventy seconds had elapsed since they had crossed steel and Lieutenant D’Hubert had to break ground again in order to avoid impaling his reckless adversary like a beetle for a cabinet of specimens.  The result was that, misapprehending the motive, Lieutenant Feraud, giving vent to triumphant snarls, pressed his attack with renewed vigour.