</p> <p> In the deepening purple twilight of the fields spread with vine leaves, backed by a low band of sombre crimson in the west, the voice of the old ex-officer in the army of the Princes sounded collected, punctiliously civil. </p> <p> &ldquo;Do I dream? Is this a pleasantry? Or am I to understand that you have been hatching an affair of honour for sixteen years?&rdquo; </p> <p> &ldquo;It has clung to me for that length of time. That is my precise meaning. The quarrel itself is not to be explained easily. We met on the ground several times during that time, of course.&rdquo; </p> <p> &ldquo;What manners! What horrible perversion of manliness! Nothing can account for such inhumanity but the sanguinary madness of the Revolution which has tainted a whole generation,&rdquo; mused the returned emigre in a low tone. &ldquo;Who&rsquo;s your adversary?&rdquo; he asked a little louder. </p> <p> &ldquo;My adversary? His name is Feraud.&rdquo; </p> <p> Shadowy in his tricorne and old-fashioned clothes, like a bowed, thin ghost of the ancien regime, the Chevalier voiced a ghostly memory. &ldquo;I can remember the feud about little Sophie Derval, between Monsieur de Brissac, Captain in the Bodyguards, and d&rsquo;Anjorrant (not the pock-marked one, the other&mdash;the Beau d&rsquo;Anjorrant, as they called him). They met three times in eighteen months in a most gallant manner. It was the fault of that little Sophie, too, who would keep on playing . . .&rdquo; </p> <p> &ldquo;This is nothing of the kind,&rdquo; interrupted General D&rsquo;Hubert. He laughed a little sardonically. &ldquo;Not at all so simple,&rdquo; he added. &ldquo;Nor yet half so reasonable,&rdquo; he finished, inaudibly, between his teeth, and ground them with rage. </p> <p> After this sound nothing troubled the silence for a long time, till the Chevalier asked, without animation: &ldquo;What is he&mdash;this Feraud?&rdquo; </p> <p> &ldquo;Lieutenant of hussars, too&mdash;I mean, he&rsquo;s a general. A Gascon. Son of a blacksmith, I believe.&rdquo; </p> <p> &ldquo;There! I thought so. That Bonaparte had a special predilection for the canaille. I don&rsquo;t mean this for you, D&rsquo;Hubert. You are one of us, though you have served this usurper, who . . .&rdquo; </p> <p> &ldquo;Let&rsquo;s leave him out of this,&rdquo; broke in General D&rsquo;Hubert. </p> <p> The Chevalier shrugged his peaked shoulders. &ldquo;Feraud of sorts. Offspring of a blacksmith and some village troll. See what comes of mixing yourself up with that sort of people.&rdquo; </p> <p> &ldquo;You have made shoes yourself, Chevalier.&rdquo; </p> <p> &ldquo;Yes.