A Tramp Abroad - The Original Classic Edition. Twain Mark

       Dark--Crawling on the Floor--A General Smash-up--Forty-seven Miles' Travel

       CHAPTER XIV A Famous Turn--out--Raftsmen on the Neckar--The Log

       Rafts--The Neckar--A Sudden Idea--To Heidelberg on a Raft--Chartering

       a Raft--Gloomy Feelings and Conversation--Delicious Journeying--View of the Banks--Compared with Railroading

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       CHAPTER VIII

       The Great French Duel

       [I Second Gambetta in a Terrific Duel]

       Much as the modern French duel is ridiculed by certain smart people, it is in reality one of the most dangerous institutions of our day. Since

       it is always fought in the open air, the combatants are nearly sure

       to catch cold. M. Paul de Cassagnac, the most inveterate of the French duelists, had suffered so often in this way that he is at last a

       confirmed invalid; and the best physician in Paris has expressed

       the opinion that if he goes on dueling for fifteen or twenty years

       more--unless he forms the habit of fighting in a comfortable room where damps and draughts cannot intrude--he will eventually endanger his life. This ought to moderate the talk of those people who are so stubborn

       in maintaining that the French duel is the most health-giving of recreations because of the open-air exercise it affords. And it ought also to moderate that foolish talk about French duelists and socialist-hated monarchs being the only people who are immoral.

       But it is time to get at my subject. As soon as I heard of the late fiery outbreak between M. Gambetta and M. Fourtou in the French Assembly, I knew that trouble must follow. I knew it because a long personal friendship with M. Gambetta revealed to me the desperate and implacable nature of the man. Vast as are his physical proportions,

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       I knew that the thirst for revenge would penetrate to the remotest frontiers of his person.

       I did not wait for him to call on me, but went at once to him. As I had expected, I found the brave fellow steeped in a profound French calm.

       I say French calm, because French calmness and English calmness have points of difference.

       He was moving swiftly back and forth among the debris of his furniture, now and then staving chance fragments of it across the room with his foot; grinding a constant grist of curses through his set teeth; and

       halting every little while to deposit another handful of his hair on the pile which he had been building of it on the table.

       He threw his arms around my neck, bent me over his stomach to his

       breast, kissed me on both cheeks, hugged me four or five times, and

       then placed me in his own arm-chair. As soon as I had got well again, we began business at once.

       I said I supposed he would wish me to act as his second, and he said, "Of course." I said I must be allowed to act under a French name, so that I might be shielded from obloquy in my country, in case of fatal results. He winced here, probably at the suggestion that dueling was not

       regarded with respect in America. However, he agreed to my requirement. This accounts for the fact that in all the newspaper reports M.

       Gambetta's second was apparently a Frenchman.

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       First, we drew up my principal's will. I insisted upon this, and stuck

       to my point. I said I had never heard of a man in his right mind going

       out to fight a duel without first making his will. He said he had never

       heard of a man in his right mind doing anything of the kind. When he had

       finished the will, he wished to proceed to a choice of his "last words." He wanted to know how the following words, as a dying exclamation, struck me:

       "I die for my God, for my country, for freedom of speech, for progress, and the universal brotherhood of man!"

       I objected that this would require too lingering a death; it was a good

       speech for a consumptive, but not suited to the exigencies of the field

       of honor. We wrangled over a good many ante-mortem outbursts, but I

       finally got him to cut his obituary down to this, which he copied into his memorandum-book, purposing to get it by heart:

       "I DIE THAT FRANCE MIGHT LIVE."

       I said that this remark seemed to lack relevancy; but he said relevancy was a matter of no consequence in last words, what you wanted was thrill.

       The next thing in order was the choice of weapons. My principal said he was not feeling well, and would leave that and the other details of the proposed meeting to me. Therefore I wrote the following note and carried it to M. Fourtou's friend:

       Sir: M. Gambetta accepts M. Fourtou's challenge, and authorizes me to

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       propose Plessis-Piquet as the place of meeting; tomorrow morning at daybreak as the time; and axes as the weapons.

       I am, sir, with great respect,

       Mark Twain.

       M. Fourtou's friend read this note, and shuddered. Then he turned to me,

       and said, with a suggestion of severity in his tone:

       "Have you considered, sir, what would be the inevitable result of such a meeting as this?"

       "Well, for instance, what WOULD it be?"

       "Bloodshed!"

       "That's about the size of it," I said. "Now, if it is a fair question, what was your side proposing to shed?"

       I had him there. He saw he had made a blunder, so he hastened to explain it away. He said he had spoken jestingly. Then he added that he and his principal would enjoy axes, and indeed prefer them, but such weapons were barred by the French code, and so I must change my proposal.

       I walked the floor, turning the thing over in my mind, and finally it occurred to me that Gatling-guns at fifteen paces would be a likely way to get a verdict on the field of honor. So I framed this idea into a proposition.

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       But it was not accepted. 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

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       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