According to this arrangement, the last advance brought
the muzzle of his pistol close to his adversary's breast--he had twice
already wounded him slightly, and received one shot himself--he fired,
and his adversary fell dead at his feet! This piece of butchery--for
as such it must be stigmatized--having been perpetrated under sanction
of the articles of the meeting, passed over without receiving any
severe notice. No wonder he was an unhappy man. I met him one day at
dinner. On that occasion he was boisterous in his mirth, without
appearing to be gay.--Suddenly he rose and left the room. Half an hour
afterwards we found him in a small _boudoir_ at the farther end of the
apartment, stretched on a sofa--writhing, groaning, and gnashing his
teeth: I thought of Richard in the tent scene. I once heard him
say--(I must give part of his expression in his own words, for
terrible as they are, they are, at the same time, so simple, that they
would lose their force in translation)--"_J'ai la bras fatal!_ if I
fire at a mark ten to one I miss it: I never miss a man." His look and
tone, as he uttered this, were as of one who should speak of an
attendant demon, from whose dominion he had no power of escape.
_R_.--I once was witness to an instance of apathy on the part of a
father--your talking of duelling reminds me of it--which is perhaps
without a parallel. Walking one day beyond the _Barriere de Clichy_, I
saw several persons assembled at a little distance from the roadside.
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