Védrine and Freydet went back together in the landau, without waiting for Sammy’s brougham, which had to come slowly for the sake of the wounded man. The sight of the swords lying in their baize cover on the empty seat opposite suggested reflection. ‘They don’t rattle so much as they did going, the brutes,’ said Védrine, kicking them as he spoke. ‘Ah, you see they are his!’ said Freydet, giving words to his thoughts. Then, resuming the air of gravity and propriety appropriate to a second, he added, ‘We had everything in our favour, the ground, the weapons, and a first rate fencer. As he says, it is very odd.’ Presently there was a pause in the dialogue, while their attention was fixed by the gorgeous colour of the river, spread in sheets of green and purple under the setting sun. Crossing the bridge the horses trotted fast up the street of Boulogne. ‘Yes,’ Védrine went on, as if there had been no long interruption of silence; ‘yes, after all, in spite of apparent successes, the fellow is unlucky at bottom. I have now seen him more than once fighting with circumstances in one of those crises which are touchstones to a man’s fate, and bring out of him all the luck he has. Well, let him plot as cunningly as he will, foresee everything, mix his tints with the utmost skill, something gives way at the last moment, and without completely ruining him prevents him from attaining his object. Why? Very likely, just because his nose is crooked. I assure you, that sort of crookedness is nearly always the sign of a twist in the intellect, an obliquity in the character. The helm’s not straight, you see!’