All the French or semi-French gentry of the district considered this a case in which a duel was natural and inevitable, and neither party had any difficulty in finding seconds, strangers as they were in the place.  Two small landowners, who were careful, practising Catholics, willingly undertook to represent that strict church-goer Camille Burt; while the profligate but apparently powerful Count Gregory found friends in an energetic local doctor who was ready for social promotion and an accidental Californian tourist who was ready for anything.  As no particular purpose could be served by delay, it was arranged that the affair should fall out three days afterwards.  And when this was settled the whole community, as it were, turned over again in bed and thought no more about the matter.  At least there was only one member of it who seemed to be restless, and that was she who was commonly most restful.  On the next night Madeleine Durand went to church as usual; and as usual the stricken Camille was there also.  What was not so usual was that when they were a bow-shot from the church Madeleine turned round and walked back to him.  “Sir,” she began, “it is not wrong of me to speak to you,” and the very words gave him a jar of unexpected truth; for in all the novels he had ever read she would have begun:  “It is wrong of me to speak to you.”  She went on with wide and serious eyes like an animal’s:  “It is not wrong of me to speak to you, because your soul, or anybody’s soul, matters so much more than what the world says about anybody.  I want to talk to you about what you are going to do.”

Bert saw in front of him the inevitable heroine of the novels trying to prevent bloodshed; and his pale firm face became implacable.

“I would do anything but that for you,” he said; “but no man can be called less than a man.”

She looked at him for a moment with a face openly puzzled, and then broke into an odd and beautiful half-smile.

“Oh, I don’t mean that,” she said; “I don’t talk about what I don’t understand.  No one has ever hit me; and if they had I should not feel as a man may.  I am sure it is not the best thing to fight.  It would be better to forgive—­if one could really forgive.  But when people dine with my father and say that fighting a duel is mere murder—­of course I can see that is not just.  It’s all so different—­having a reason—­and letting the other man know—­and using the same guns and things—­and doing it in front of your friends.  I’m awfully stupid, but I know that men like you aren’t murderers.  But it wasn’t that that I meant.”

“What did you mean?” asked the other, looking broodingly at the earth.

“Don’t you know,” she said, “there is only one more celebration?  I thought that as you always go to church—­I thought you would communicate this morning.”

Bert stepped backward with a sort of action she had never seen in him before.  It seemed to alter his whole body.