exercise it affords. And it ought also to moderate that
foolish talk about French duelists and socialist-hated
monarchs being the only people who are immoral.
But it is time to get at my subject. As soon as I heard
of the late fiery outbreak between M. Gambetta and M. Fourtou
in the French Assembly, I knew that trouble must follow.
I knew it because a long personal friendship with
M. Gambetta revealed to me the desperate and implacable
nature of the man. Vast as are his physical proportions,
I knew that the thirst for revenge would penetrate
to the remotest frontiers of his person.
I did not wait for him to call on me, but went at once
to him. As I had expected, I found the brave fellow
steeped in a profound French calm. I say French calm,
because French calmness and English calmness have points
of difference. He was moving swiftly back and forth
among the debris of his furniture, now and then staving
chance fragments of it across the room with his foot;
grinding a constant grist of curses through his set teeth;
and halting every little while to deposit another handful
of his hair on the pile which he had been building of it on
the table.
He threw his arms around my neck, bent me over his stomach
to his breast, kissed me on both cheeks, hugged me four
or five times, and then placed me in his own arm-chair.
As soon as I had got well again, we began business at once.
I said I supposed he would wish me to act as his second,
and he said, “Of course.” I said I must be allowed
to act under a French name, so that I might be shielded
from obloquy in my country, in case of fatal results.
He winced here, probably at the suggestion that dueling was
not regarded with respect in America. However, he agreed
to my requirement. This accounts for the fact that in all
the newspaper reports M. Gambetta’s second was apparently
a Frenchman.
First, we drew up my principal’s will. I insisted upon this,
and stuck to my point. I said I had never heard of a man
in his right mind going out to fight a duel without
first making his will. He said he had never heard
of a man in his right mind doing anything of the kind.
When he had finished the will, he wished to proceed
to a choice of his “last words.” He wanted to know
how the following words, as a dying exclamation, struck me:
“I die for my God, for my country, for freedom of speech,
for progress, and the universal brotherhood of man!”
I objected that this would require too lingering a death;
it was a good speech for a consumptive, but not suited
to the exigencies of the field of honor. We wrangled
over a good many ante-mortem outburts, but I finally got
him to cut his obituary down to this, which he copied
into his memorandum-book, purposing to get it by heart:
“I DIE THAT FRANCE MIGHT LIVE.”
I said that this remark seemed to lack relevancy; but he
said relevancy was a matter of no consequence in last words,
what you wanted was thrill.
The next thing in order was the choice of weapons.
My principal said he was not feeling well, and would leave
that and the other details of the proposed meeting to me.
Therefore I wrote the following note and carried it to
M. Fourtou’s friend:
Sir: M. Gambetta accepts M. Fourtou’s challenge,
and authorizes me to propose Plessis-Piquet as the place
of meeting; tomorrow morning at daybreak as the time;
and axes as the weapons.
I am, sir, with great respect,
Mark Twain.
M. Fourtou’s friend read this note, and shuddered.
Then he turned to me, and said, with a suggestion of
severity in his tone:
“Have you considered, sir, what would be the inevitable
result of such a meeting as this?”
“Well, for instance, what WOULD it be?”
“Bloodshed!”
“That’s about the size of it,” I said. “Now, if it is
a fair question, what was your side proposing to shed?”
I had him there. He saw he had made a blunder, so he hastened
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