him; but at the first encounter he felt that the
colonel's wrist was iron, with the flexibility of a steel string.
Maxence was then forced, unfortunate fellow, to think of another move,
while Philippe, whose eyes were darting gleams that were sharper than
the flash of their blades, parried every attack with the coolness of a
fencing-master wearing his plastron in an armory.

Between two men of the calibre of these combatants, there occurs a
phenomenon very like that which takes place among the lower classes,
during the terrible tussle called "the savante," which is fought with
the feet, as the name implies. Victory depends on a false movement, on
some error of the calculation, rapid as lightning, which must be made
and followed almost instinctively. During a period of time as short to
the spectators as it seems long to the combatants, the contest lies in
observation, so keen as to absorb the powers of mind and body, and yet
concealed by preparatory feints whose slowness and apparent prudence
seem to show that the antagonists are not intending to fight. This
moment, which is followed by a rapid and decisive struggle, is
terrible to a connoisseur. At a bad parry from Max the colonel sent
the sabre spinning from his hand.

"Pick it up," he said, pausing; "I am not the man to kill a disarmed
enemy."

There was something atrocious in the grandeur of these words; they
seemed to show such consciousness of superiority that the onlookers
took them for a shrewd calculation. In fact, when Max replaced himself
in position, he had lost his coolness, and was once more confronted
with his adversary's raised guard which defended the colonel's whole
person while it menaced his. He resolved to redeem his shameful defeat
by a bold stroke. He no longer guarded himself, but took his sabre in
both hands and rushed furiously on his antagonist, resolved to kill
him, if he had to lose his own life. Philippe received a sabre-cut
which slashed open his forehead and a part of his face, but he cleft
Max's head obliquely by the terrible sweep of a "moulinet," made to
break the force of the annihilating stroke Max aimed at him. These two
savage blows ended the combat, at the ninth minute. Fario came down to
gloat over the sight of his enemy in the convulsions of death; for the
muscles of a man of Maxence Gilet's vigor quiver horribly. Philippe
was carried back to his uncle's house.

Thus perished a man destined to do great deeds had he lived his