In return, his friend, who was just setting off for Mexico, commended his wife, Emilie, whom he adored and trusted absolutely, to his care, and asked his wife to consider Louis de Franchi as her brother.  For six months the captain had been away, and Emilie had been living at her mother’s.  To this house, among other visitors, had come M. de Chateau-Renard, and from the first, this typical man of the world had been an object of dislike to Louis.  Emilie’s flirtations with Chateau-Renard at last provoked a remonstrance from Louis, and in return the lady told him that he was in love with her himself, and that he was absurd in his notions.  After that Louis had left off calling on Emilie, but gossip was soon busy with the lady’s name.

An anonymous letter had made an appointment for Louis with the lady of the violets at the masked ball, and from this person he was informed again not only of Emilie’s infidelity, but further, that M. de Chateau-Renard had wagered he would bring her to supper at D——­’s.

The rest I knew, and I could only assent mournfully that things must go on, and that the proposals of Chateau-Renard’s seconds could not be declined.

But M. Louis de Franchi had never touched sword or pistol in his life!  However, there was nothing for it but to return M. de Chateaugrand’s call.

Martelli and I found that Chateau-Renard’s two supporters were both polite men of the world.  They were as indifferent as Louis was to the choice of weapons, and by a spin of a coin it was decided that pistols were to be used.

The place agreed upon for the duel was the Bois de Vincennes, and the time nine o’clock the following morning.

I called in the evening on Louis to ask him if he had any instructions for me; but his only reply was “Counsel comes with the night,” so I waited on him next morning.

He was just finishing a letter when I entered, and he bade his servant Joseph leave us undisturbed for ten minutes.

“I am anxious,” said Louis, “that my friend Giordano Martelli, who is a Corsican, should not know of this letter.  But you must promise to carry out my wishes, and then my family may be saved a second misfortune.  Now, please read the letter.”

I read the letter Louis had written.  It was to his mother, and it said that he was dying of brain fever.  Her son, writing in a lucid interval, was beyond hope of recovery.  It would be posted to her a quarter of an hour after his death.  There was an affectionate postscript to Lucien.

“What does this mean?  I don’t understand it,” I said.

“It means that at ten minutes past nine I shall be dead.  I have been forewarned, that is all.  My father appeared to me last night and announced my death.”

He spoke so simply of this visit, that if it was an illusion it was as terribly convincing as the truth.

“There is one thing more,” said Louis.  “If my brother was to hear that I had been killed in a duel, he would at once leave Sullacro to come and fight the man who had killed me.  And then if he were killed in his turn my mother would be thrice widowed.  To prevent that I have written this letter.  If it is believed that I have died of brain fever no one can be blamed.”  He paused.  “Unless, unless—­but no, that must not be.”