“Madame, up to the time when I went with Vaucher to the ground I had not given a thought to the issue of the affair.  I had taken it for granted that Bertin would go down; at such seasons, one is blinded by one’s sense of right.  It lasted not two minutes.  They fought with the saber—­our custom at that time.  Though it was early in the morning, there was a strong sun; it made a flame on the blades as they saluted before engaging.  Bertin was very sober and serious, but one had only to glance at him to perceive a very heat of wrath masked under his heavy countenance.  Vaucher was intent, wary, full of careful purpose.  Their blades touched.  ‘All’ez!’ There were a couple of moments of fencing, of almost formal escrime, and then Vaucher lengthened his arm and attacked.  Bertin stepped back a pace, and, as Vaucher advanced, he slashed with a high open cut, and it was over.  Vaucher threw up both hands and came to his knees.  I remember that I stood, unable to move, staring aghast at this end to the affair; while Bertin threw down his sword, turned his back, and went to where his clothes lay.  At that moment he seemed as vast against the morning sky as a monument, as a sphinx carved out of a mountain.  He had spoken no word.”

“We took Vaucher back to the city.  It was a cut in the head.  Madame shall be spared the particulars.  I think he is living yet, but it was the end of him, none the less.”

The little Colonel’s voice dropped on the last words.  He did not take the sympathy and friendship that waited for him in Elsie’s grey eyes; he looked with a somber gaze at the Comtesse.  She still held her favorite attitude, leaning a little to one side in her great chair, so that she could watch the shifting shapes in the fire.  She was smiling slightly, but her smile vanished as the Colonel paused.

“He was a gallant gentleman,” she said softly.  Elsie turned her head to look at her, surprised, for the thing was said perfunctorily, in the manner of a commonplace of politeness.

Colonel Saval bowed.  “Madame la Comtesse is only just,” he said.  But he glanced sharply at her serene, preoccupied face with a manner of some dissatisfaction.

He resumed his tale with a sigh.  “After all,” he said, “there is not much to tell.  I was not fortunate enough to meet Madame Bertin frequently during the two years that followed.  From time to time I saw her, always with some wonder, for she preserved to the end that delicate and superb quality which so distinguished her.  The scandal of the brawl was the small thing that was needed to turn Bertin’s course downhill; almost from that day one could mark his decline.  It was not a matter of incidents; it was simply that within a year most of us were passing him without recognition, and there was talk of debts that troubled him.  He had deteriorated, too; whereas of old he was florid, now he was inflamed and gross; where he had been merely loud, he was now coarse.