on the staircase, whom I have already mentioned in connection with Madame Sand. He had an album in his hand. "Stop," he said, "are you going out?" "Yes." "Are you in a hurry?" "Why?" "Because, if you are not in a hurry, I wish you would go upstairs and write a few lines of poetry in my album." "All right! Take the album upstairs; and leave it. On my return I will put you a scene in it from _Christine_ or from _Charles VII."_ "You cannot do it at once?" "No, honestly I can't." "Go along with you!" "On my word of honour, I am in a hurry, and I would not be late for the whole world!" "Where are you going?" "I am off to fight a duel with Gaillardet." "Bah!" "Better late than never." "Oh, then, my dear friend, write me my lines at once, I entreat." "Why?" "If you are going to be killed, see how interesting it would be for my wife to have the last lines you had written!" "You are right, I had not thought of that. I would not like to deprive Madame Bonnaire of this chance; let us go up, my friend." We went upstairs, I wrote ten lines in the album and Bonnaire left me delighted. I was, indeed, a little later than my seconds; but I had such a good excuse to offer them that they forgave me. Bixio came and joined us at the café. We were at Saint-Mandé by noon. We found Gosset's lad there, waiting for us with freshly cleaned pistols which no one had hitherto used. Looking behind the carriage, we saw a hackney carriage following us. We suspected it was our adversary and his seconds. We got down at the appointed place. The hackney opened, but we only saw Soulié and Fontan get out of it. M. Gaillardet had said that he would come by himself. They ran to me. I had already noticed the strange fact that they scarcely knew M. Gaillardet, whilst we were old friends. So all their sympathies were for me. I asked them to make one final effort to make M. Gaillardet fight with swords, warning them that if, at the first shot, nothing happened, I should demand a reloading of pistols. They promised to do their best in the matter of the change of weapons. At that moment a carriage appeared and stopped a few yards from us. M. Gaillardet got out of it. He was in regular duelling toilet: coat, breeches and black waistcoat, without a single white spot anywhere on him, not even his shirt collar. It was with the recollection of the effect he made on me thus clad, that, sixteen years later, I wrote the scene between Comte Hermann and Karl, a scene where, at the moment of letting his nephew go to fight a pistol duel, Comte Hermann buttons Karl's coat and tucks the ends of his collar under his cravat. It is well known how difficult it is to hit a man clad wholly in black. When Carrel was wounded by Giradin, a year or two later, it was on the few threads from the end of his yellow waistcoat which stuck out beyond his black coat. I shared my observation with Bixio. "Where will you aim?" he asked me. "I do not know, upon my word," I replied.