"Oh, just as a spectator. It will be worth his while, for, if I mistake not, there will be something worth seeing to-morrow morning at seven o'clock in the Avenue of the Minimes, just by the pond, for that is, I believe, our place of meeting." De Brissac bowed. "I will bring a friend," said he. Little did I think of the surprising thing that friend would see; and little did De Brissac dream that the duel in which he was to take part would be noticeable above all other duels in the history of duelling even unto this day. "Till to-morrow, at seven, then," said I. "Till to-morrow," replied De Brissac. Then I took my departure. The Vicomte, before starting on his visit to Auvergne, had cleared his money and his property out of Paris as far as possible, but he had left the hotel in the Place Vendôme "all standing," as the sailors say. To have removed his furniture, his horses, and his equipages would have been to declare his hand; and if by any chance the storm had not burst and France had emerged from her difficulties, the man who had taken shelter, or, in plainer words, taken flight, would have found a very curious welcome on his return to the beloved Boulevards. He had foresees everything, even the chance of success, and he had prepared for everything, always with his mind's eye on failure. So I had a stable full of horses at my disposal, and a house full of servants; all the bills were paid; there was unlimited credit, and I had ten thousand francs in my pocketbook, which he had left with me in case of eventualities. I returned from De Brissac's to the Place Vendôme, ordered out a britzka and a pair of swift horses, and told the coachman to take me to Etiolles. I wished to shake hands with Franzius and kiss Eloise again. I had also determined to tell them of what was to happen on the morrow. We passed through Bercy, and retook the same road I had taken that morning in May when I had gone down to make arrangements for Eloise's reception at the Pavilion. It was the same road, but dressed now in the glory of summer. Heavens! when I think of that road, so peaceful, the houses wearing such a contented look, the flowers in the garden, the little children playing on the doorsteps; that road so soon to resound to the tramp of the German hordes, and the drums of war, the rolling of artillery and baggage-wagons--when I think of that scene of peace and what followed! And now it is all so far away, so many summers have re-dressed that road again; and what of it all remains? Only an old story with which Father Maboeuf bores the drinkers at the Grape Inn, of Champrosay; a tale which old men in Germany tell the grandchildren; a song or two. Scarcely that.