e road to Clignancourt; it is good
form, and we ought to set them an example."

"Here is the programme," said de Marsay, as the cab rattled through the
Faubourg Saint-Denis: "You stand up at twenty-five paces, coming nearer,
till you are only fifteen apart. You have, each of you, five paces to
take and three shots to fire--no more. Whatever happens, that must be
the end of it. We load for your antagonist, and his seconds load for
you. The weapons were chosen by the four seconds at a gunmaker's. We
helped you to a chance, I will promise you; horse pistols are to be the
weapons."

For Lucien, life had become a bad dream. He did not care whether he
lived or died. The courage of suicide helped him in some sort to carry
things off with a dash of bravado before the spectators. He stood in
his place; he would not take a step, a piece of recklessness which
the others took for deliberate calculation. They thought the poet an
uncommonly cool hand. Michel Chrestien came as far as his limit; both
fired twice and at the same time, for either party was considered to be
equally insulted. Michel's first bullet grazed Lucien's chin; Lucien's
passed ten feet above Chrestien's head. The second shot hit Lucien's
coat collar, but the buckram lining fortunately saved its wearer. The
third bullet struck him in the chest, and he dropped.

"Is he dead?" asked Michel Chrestien.

"No," said the surgeon, "he will pull through."

"So much the worse," answered Michel.

"Yes; so much the worse," said Lucien, as his tears fell fast.

By noon the unhappy boy lay in bed in his own room. With untold pains
they had managed to remove him, but it had taken five hours to bring him
to the Rue de la Lune. His condition was not dangerous, but precautions
were necessary lest fever should set in and bring about troublesome
complications. Coralie choked down her grief and anguish. She sat up
with him at night through the anxious weeks of his illness, studying
her parts by his bedside. Lucien was in danger for two long months; and
often at the theatre Coralie acted her frivolous role with one thought
in her heart, "Perhaps he is dying at this moment."

Lucien owed his life to the skill and devotion of a friend whom he had
grievously hurt. Bianchon had come to tend him after hearing the story
of the attack from d'Arthez, who told it in confidence, and excused the
unhappy poet. Bianchon suspected that d'Arthez was generously trying to
screen the renegade; bu