The stranger who had just joined us, could not help remarking our looks of satisfaction at the choice of ground, and observed to me—­

“This is not the first affair that this little spot has witnessed; and the moulinet of St. Cloud is, I think, the very best ‘meet’ about Paris.”

Trevanion who, during these few minutes, had been engaged with Derigny, now drew me aside.

“Well, Lorrequer, have you any recollection now of having seen your opponent before? or can you make a guess at the source of all this?”

“Never till this instant,” said I, “have I beheld him,” as I looked towards the tall, stoutly-built figure of my adversary, who was very leisurely detaching a cordon from his tightly fitting frock, doubtless to prevent its attracting my aim.

“Well, never mind, I shall manage every thing properly.  What can you do with the small sword, for they have rapiers at the mill?”

“Nothing whatever; I have not fenced since I was a boy.”

“N’importe—­then we’ll fight at a barriere.  I know they’re not prepared for that from Englishmen; so just step on one side now, and leave me to talk it over.”

As the limited nature of the ground did not permit me to retire to a distance, I became involuntarily aware of a dialogue, which even the seriousness of the moment could scarcely keep me from laughing at outright.

It was necessary, for the sake of avoiding any possible legal difficulty in the result, that O’Leary should give his assent to every step of the arrangement; and being totally ignorant of French, Trevanion had not only to translate for him, but also to render in reply O’Leary’s own comments or objections to the propositions of the others.

“Then it is agreed—­we fight at a barriere,” said the Captain Derigny.

“What’s that, Trevanion?”

“We have agreed to place them at a barriere,” replied Trevanion.

“That’s strange,” muttered O’Leary to himself, who, knowing that the word meant a “turnpike,” never supposed it had any other signification.

“Vingt quatre pas, n’est pas,” said Derigny.

“Too far,” interposed Trevanion.

“What does he say now?” asked O’Leary.

“Twenty-four paces for the distance.”

“Twenty-four of my teeth he means,” said O’Leary, snapping his fingers.  “What does he think of the length of Sackville-street?  Ask him that, will ye?”

“What says Monsieur?” said the Frenchman.

“He thinks the distance much too great.”

“He may be mistaken,” said the Captain, half sneeringly.  “My friend is ‘de la premiere force.’”

“That must be something impudent, from your looks, Mr. Trevanion.  Isn’t it a thousand pities I can’t speak French?”

“What say you, then, to twelve paces?  Fire together, and two shots each, if the first fire be inconclusive,” said Trevanion.

“And if necessary,” added the Frenchman, carelessly, “conclude with these”—­touching the swords with his foot as he spoke.