The young man put so much grace in that adieu, his courage was so simple, his sacrifice for his brother-in-law so magnanimous and natural—­in fact, for two days both seconds had so fully appreciated the charm of that disposition, absolutely free from thoughts of self—­that they pressed his hand with the emotion of true friends.  They were themselves, moreover, interested, and at once began the series of preparations without which the role of assistant would be physically insupportable to persons endowed with a little sensibility.  In experienced hands like those of Montfanon, Cibo and Pietrapertosa, such preliminaries are speedily arranged.  The code is as exact as the step of a ballet.  Twenty minutes after the entrance of the last arrivals, the two adversaries were face to face.  The signal was given.  The two shots were fired simultaneously, and Florent sank upon the grass which covered the enclosure.  He had a bullet in his thigh.

Dorsenne has often related since, as a singular trait of literary mania, that at the moment the wounded man fell he, himself, notwithstanding the anxiety which possessed him, had watched Montfanon, to study him.  He adds that never had he seen a face express such sorrowful piety as that of the man who, scorning all human respect, made the sign of the cross.  It was the devotee of the catacombs, who had left the altar of the martyrs to accomplish a work of charity, then carried away by anger so far as to place himself under the necessity of participating in a duel, who was, no doubt, asking pardon of God.  What remorse was stirring within the heart of the fervent, almost mystical Christian, so strangely mixed up in an adventure of that kind?  He had at least this comfort, that after the first examination, and when they had borne Florent into a room prepared hastily by the care of Cibo, the doctor declared himself satisfied.  The ball could even be removed at once, and as neither the bone nor the muscles had been injured it was a matter of a few weeks at the most.

“All that now remains for us,” concluded Cibo, who had brought back the news, “is to draw up our official report.”

At that instant, and as the witnesses were preparing to reenter the house for the last formality, an incident occurred, very unexpected, which was to transform the encounter, up to that time so simple, into one of those memorable duels which are talked over at clubs and in armories.  If Pietrapertosa and Cibo had ceased since morning to believe in the jettatura of the “some one” whom neither had named, it must be acknowledged that they were very unjust, for the good fortune of having gained something wherewith to swell their Parisian purses was surely naught by the side of this—­to have to discuss with the Cavals, the Machaults and other professionals the case, almost unprecedented, in which they were participants.

Boleslas Gorka, who, when once his adversary had fallen, paced to and fro without seeming to care as to the gravity of the wound, suddenly approached the group formed by the four men, and in a tone of voice which did not predict the terrible aggression in which he was about to indulge, he said: