The code was in the way again.
I proposed rifles; then double-barreled shotguns;
then Colt's navy revolvers. These being all rejected,
I reflected awhile, and sarcastically suggested brickbats
at three-quarters of a mile. I always hate to fool away
a humorous thing on a person who has no perception of humor;
and it filled me with bitterness when this man went soberly
away to submit the last proposition to his principal.
He came back presently and said his principal was charmed
with the idea of brickbats at three-quarters of a mile,
but must decline on account of the danger to disinterested
parties passing between them. Then I said:
"Well, I am at the end of my string, now. Perhaps YOU
would be good enough to suggest a weapon? Perhaps you
have even had one in your mind all the time?"
His countenance brightened, and he said with alacrity:
"Oh, without doubt, monsieur!"
So he fell to hunting in his pockets - pocket after pocket,
and he had plenty of them - muttering all the while,
"Now, what could I have done with them?"
At last he was successful. He fished out of his vest pocket
a couple of little things which I carried to the light
and ascertained to be pistols. They were single-barreled
and silver-mounted, and very dainty and pretty.
I was not able to speak for emotion. I silently hung
one of them on my watch-chain, and returned the other.
My companion in crime now unrolled a postage-stamp
containing several cartridges, and gave me one of them.
I asked if he meant to signify by this that our men were
to be allowed but one shot apiece. He replied that the
French code permitted no more. I then begged him to go
and suggest a distance, for my mind was growing weak
and confused under the strain which had been put upon it.
He named sixty-five yards. I nearly lost my patience.
I said:
"Sixty-five yards, with these instruments? Squirt-guns
would be deadlier at fifty. Consider, my friend,
you and I are banded together to destroy life, not make
it eternal."
But with all my persuasions, all my arguments, I was only
able to get him to reduce the distance to thirty-five yards;
and even this concession he made with reluctance,
and said with a sigh, "I wash my hands of this slaughter;
on your head be it."
There was nothing for me but to go home to my old
lion-heart and tell my humiliating story. When I entered,
M. Gambetta was laying his last lock of hair upon the altar.
He sprang toward me, exclaiming:
"You have made the fatal arrangements - I see it in your eye!"
"I have."
His face paled a trifle, and he leaned upon the table
for support. He breathed thick and heavily for a moment
or two, so tumultuous were his feelings; then he hoarsely
whispered:
