"Feel my pulse," he said.

I did so, and ascertained that his calm and his cheerfulness were neither
affected nor feverish.

"In such a condition," he added, "if a man is killed it is because he is
willing to be. Good-night, my dear sir!" Whereupon I left him.

Yesterday morning, at half-past eight, we repaired, Monsieur George,
Monsieur de Breuilly, and myself, to an unfrequented path situated about
half way between Mauterne and Malouet, and which had been selected for the
dueling-ground. Our adversary arrived almost immediately after,
accompanied by Messieurs de Quiroy and Astley. The nature of the insult
admitted of no attempt at conciliation. We had therefore to proceed at
once to the fight.

Scarcely had Monsieur George placed himself in position, when we became
convinced of his complete inexperience in the use of the sword. Monsieur
de Breuilly cast upon me a look of stupor. However, after the blades had
been crossed, there was a semblance of fight and of defense; but at the
third pass, Monsieur George fell pierced through the chest.

I threw myself upon him; he was already in the grasp of death.
Nevertheless he pressed my hand feebly, smiled once more, then gave vent,
with his last breath, to his last thought, which was for you, sir:

"Tell Paul that I love him, that I forbid him seeking to avenge me, and
that I die--happy." He expired.