But Madame Walter remarked, in a hesitating tone: “I should very much like to have you with us all the same. You can tell me the names of the fencers. Come, if you stand close to the end of the seat you will not be in anyone’s way.” She looked at him with her large mild eyes, and persisted, saying: “Come, stay with us, Monsieur—Pretty-boy. We have need of you.”
He replied: “I will obey with pleasure, madame.”
On all sides could be heard the remark: “It is very funny, this cellar; very pretty, too.”
George knew it well, this vault. He recalled the morning he had passed there on the eve of his duel, alone in front of the little white carton target that had glared at him from the depths of the inner cellar like a huge and terrible eye.
The voice of Jacques Rival sounded from the staircase: “Just about to begin, ladies.” And six gentlemen, in very tight-fitting clothes, to set off their chests, mounted the platform, and took their seats on the chairs reserved for the judges. Their names flew about. General de Reynaldi, the president, a short man, with heavy moustaches; the painter, Joséphin Roudet, a tall, ball-headed man, with a long beard; Matthéo de Ujar, Simon Ramoncel, Pierre de Carvin, three fashionable-looking young fellows; and Gaspard Merleron, a master. Two placards were hung up on the two sides of the vault. That on the right was inscribed “ M. Crévecœur,” and that on the left “ M. Plumeau.”
They were two professors, two good second-class masters. They made their appearance, both sparely built, with military air and somewhat stiff movements. Having gone through the salute with automatic action, they