Mansart retreated a few steps, crouching back like a wild beast that has received a wound, which simulates an approaching end, and which holds its remaining strength together waiting for its destroyer to draw near. "You must acknowledge that it does not look like chance," went on Vétérin, who was cool as ice. "Eighteen to one! _Ma foi_, it is astonishing." He placed two pistols upon the table. "Come, monsieur," he exclaimed, suddenly, in a hard, rasping voice. "You will play the man, will you not?" Mansart appeared unable to reply; perhaps he could not. His look was steadily directed upon the trooper, whose slightest movement he observed with the most intense anxiety. Vétérin examined the pistols, while he threw more than one furtive glance at the other's passionless face. He pushed a pistol toward Simon. "I think you had better defend yourself," he said. "I am going to hold you to your word," and he stepped back, raising his own weapon. "Stop!" exclaimed Mansart, in a choked voice. "We do not fight on equal terms." "What do you mean?" "You are skilled in the use of your weapon, while I----" "That is easily remedied." Vétérin suddenly extinguished the candle. He called out, "Take care! I shall fire at the first opportunity." A nebulous red glow came from the nearly-burned log in the grate and shone upon the farther side of the apartment. Both men had retreated into the shadow; both waited. There was a profound silence, broken occasionally by whispering sounds from the log that pulsated, red and grey, as the draught fanned it. Vétérin was scarcely breathing; his straining eyes peered into the dark, seeking to detect the form of Simon Mansart. He listened intently. Not the faintest sound was audible. Suddenly he believed that he perceived a black object but a few feet from him. Surely that was Mansart. The cuirassier lifted his pistol and aimed at the centre of that indistinct form; yet his finger did not press the trigger. Instead he gradually lowered the weapon. "What is the matter with my nerves?" he thought. He remained standing in a rigid posture, undecided. "Why not?" he asked himself again. "It is fair fighting. _Ma foi_, I have done worse things." Another minute passed. Vétérin sighed deeply. "I cannot do it," he muttered; "not even for you, Nicolas." Then he called out aloud:-- "Light the candle; I shall do you no harm." No answer. "You need not fear me," repeated the trooper. Still no reply. "If I move he will shoot at me," thought Vétérin. Nevertheless, he advanced in the direction of the table and groped about for the candlestick. He found it, went to the fire, and held the coarse wick against the log. All the time he did not remove his eyes for an instant from that black something which he believed to be Mansart. The candle smoked, glowed, then broke into a flame. The trooper had made a mistake; he perceived that the shadowy object was a chair merely.