Deliberately Fontenelle dug his heel into the ground and measured twelve paces from that mark between himself and his antagonist.  Then with cold courtesy he stood aside for Miraudin to assure himself that the measurement was correct.  The actor complied with this formality in a sufficiently composed way, and with a certain grace and dignity which Fontenelle might almost have taken for bravery if he had not been so convinced that the man was “acting” still in his mind, and was going through a “part” which he disliked, but which he was forced to play.  And with it all there was something indefinable about him—­something familiar in the turn of his head, the glance of his eye, the movement of his body, which annoyed Fontenelle, because he saw in all these little personal touches such a strong resemblance to himself.  But there was now no time to think, as the moment for the combat drew near.  Jeanne Richaud was still weeping hysterically and expostulating with the cab-driver, who paid no attention whatsoever to her pleadings, but remained obstinately on his knees out of harm’s way, begging the “Santissima Madonna” and all his “patron saints” to see him safely with his fiacre back to the city.  That was all he cared for.

“We have no one to give us a signal,” said Miraudin lightly, “But there is a cloud on the moon.  When it passes, shall we fire?”

The Marquis bowed assent.

For a moment the moon-rays were obscured,—­and a faint sigh from the wind stirred the long dry grass.  A bat flew by, scurrying towards the Catacombs of Alexander,—­a shadow lay upon the land.  The combatants,—­so singularly alike in form and feature,—­stood rigidly in position, their weapons raised,—­their only witnesses a cabman and a wanton, both creatures terrified out of their wits for themselves and their own safety.  Swiftly the cloud passed—­and a brilliant silver glory was poured out on hill and plain and broken column,—­and as it shone, the two shots were fired simultaneously—­ the two bullets whizzed through the air.  A light puff of smoke rose in the moonbeams—­it cleared—­and Miraudin reeled backwards and fell heavily to the ground.  Fontenelle stood upright, but staggered a little,—­instinctively putting his hand to his breast.  Jeanne Richaud rushed to the side of her fallen lover.

“Victor!  Victor!”

Miraudin struggled up to a half sitting position—­the blood was welling up thickly from a wound in his lungs.  Half suffocated as he was, he made a strong effort to speak, and succeeded.

“Not you—­not you!” he gasped, “Do not touch me!  Do not come near me!  Him!—­him!” And he pointed to Fontenelle who still stood erect, swaying slightly to and fro with a dazed far-off look in his eyes—­ but now—­as the frenzied soubrette beckoned him, he moved unsteadily to the side of his mortally wounded opponent, and there, through weakness, not emotion, dropped on his knees.  Miraudin looked at him with staring filmy eyes.