“You forget that I offered him a violent insult in raising my cane to him,” interrupted Florent, “and since he demands satisfaction I must give it to him.”

“Do you believe,” said the writer, “that the public will be contented with those reasons?  Do you think they will not look for the secret motives of the duel?  Do I know the story of a woman?....  You see, I ask no questions.  I rely upon what you confide in me.  But the world is the world, and you will not escape its remarks.”

“It is precisely for that reason that I ask absolute discretion of you,” replied Florent, “and for that reason that I have come to ask you to serve me as a second....  There is no one in whom I trust as implicitly as I do in you....  It is the only excuse for my step.”

“I thank you,” said Dorsenne.  He hesitated a moment.  Then the image of Alba, which had haunted him since the previous day, suddenly presented itself to his mind.  He recalled the sombre anguish he had surprised in the young girl’s eyes, then her comforted glance when her mother smiled at once upon Gorka and Maitland.  He recalled the anonymous letter and the mysterious hatred which impended over Madame Steno.  If the quarrel between Boleslas and Florent became known, there was no doubt that it would be said generally that Florent was fighting for his brother-in-law on account of the Countess.  No doubt, too, that the report would reach the poor Contessina.  It was sufficient to cause the writer to reply:  “Very well!  I accept.  I will serve you.  Do not thank me.  We are losing valuable time.  You will require another second.  Of whom have you thought?”

“Of no one,” returned Florent.  “I confess I have counted on you to aid me.”

“Let us make a list,” said Julien.  “It is the best way, and then cross off the names.”

Dorsenne wrote down a number of their acquaintances, and they indeed crossed them off, according to his expression, so effectually that after a minute examination they had rejected all of them.  They were then as much perplexed as ever, when suddenly Dorsenne’s eyes brightened, he uttered a slight exclamation, and said brusquely: 

“What an idea!  But it is an idea!....  Do you know the Marquis de Montfanon?” he asked Florent.

“He with one arm?” replied the latter.  “I saw him once with reference to a monument I put up at Saint Louis des Francais.”

“He told me of it,” said Dorsenne.  “For one of your relatives, was it not?”

“Oh, a distant cousin,” replied Florent; “one Captain Chapron, killed in ’forty-nine in the trenches before Rome.”

“Now, to our business,” cried Dorsenne, rubbing his hands.  “It is Montfanon who must be your second.  First of all, he is an experienced duellist, while I have never been on the ground.  That is very important.  You know the celebrated saying:  ’It is neither swords nor pistols which kill; it is the seconds.’....  And then if the matter has to be arranged, he will have more prestige than your servant.”