“You do not admit the full offence to have been committed, and, since this is in doubt, and I can not be judge and jury together, we shall consult chance.”

“I declare to you that I will not fire first,” interrupted Gerfaut.

“Remember that it is a mortal duel, and such scruples are foolish.  Let us agree that whoever has the first shot, shall place himself upon the border of the woods and await the signal, which the other will give when the boar crosses the enclosure.”

He took a gold piece from his purse and threw it in the air.

“Heads!” said the lover, ready to acquiesce to the least of his adversary’s conditions.

“Fate is for you,” said Christian, looking at the coin with marked indifference; “but, remember, if at the signal given by me you do not fire, or only fire in the air, I shall use my right to shoot—­You know that I rarely miss my aim.”

These preliminaries ended, the Baron took two guns from his closet, loaded them, taking particular care to show that they were of equal length and the same calibre.  He then locked them up in the closet and offered Gerfaut the key.

“I would not do you this injustice,” said the latter.

“This precaution is hardly necessary, since, tomorrow, you will take your choice of those weapons.  Now that everything is arranged,” continued the Baron, in a graver tone, “I have one request to make of you, and I think you are too loyal to refuse it.  Swear to me that whatever may be the result, you will keep all this a profound secret.  My honor is now in your hands; speaking as a gentleman to a gentleman, I ask you to respect it.”

“If I have the sad privilege of surviving you,” replied Gerfaut, no less solemnly, “I swear to you to keep the secret inviolate.  But, supposing a contrary event, I also have a request to make to you.  What are your intentions regarding Madame de Bergenheim?”

Christian gazed at his adversary a moment, with a searching glance which seemed to read his innermost thoughts.

“My intentions?” said he at last, in a displeased, surprised tone; “this is a very strange question; I do not recognize your right to ask it.”

“My right is certainly strange,” said the lover, with a bitter smile; “but whatever it may be, I shall make use of it.  I have destroyed this woman’s happiness forever; if I can not repair this fault, at least I ought to mitigate the effect as much as lies in my power.  Will you reply to me—­if I die tomorrow, what will be her fate?”

Bergenheim kept silent, his sombre eyes lowered to the floor.

“Listen to me, Monsieur,” continued Gerfaut, with great emotion; “when I said to you, ‘She is not guilty,’ you did not believe me, and I despair of ever persuading you, for I know well what your suspicions must be.  However, these are the last words addressed to you that will leave my mouth, and you know that one has to believe a dying man’s statement.  If tomorrow you avenge yourself, I earnestly beg of you, let this reparation suffice.  All my pride is gone, you see, since I beg this of you upon my bended knees.  Be humane toward her; spare her, Monsieur.  It is not pardon which I ask you to grant her—­it is pity for her unsullied innocence.  Treat her kindly—­honorably.  Do not make her too wretched.”