rison life in
Strasbourg, he had had but two short glimpses of her. They had been
great friends and confidants; and now she was going to be given away to
a man whom he did not know--a very worthy fellow no doubt, but not half
good enough for her. He would never see his old Leonie again. She had
a capable little head, and plenty of tact; she would know how to manage
the fellow, to be sure. He was easy in his mind about her happiness but
he felt ousted from the first place in her thoughts which had been his
ever since the girl could speak. A melancholy regret of the days of
his childhood settled upon Captain D'Hubert, third aide-de-camp to the
Prince of Ponte Corvo.

He threw aside the letter of congratulation he had begun to write as in
duty bound, but without enthusiasm. He took a fresh piece of paper, and
traced on it the words: "This is my last will and testament." Looking at
these words he gave himself up to unpleasant reflection; a presentiment
that he would never see the scenes of his childhood weighed down the
equable spirits of Captain D'Hubert. He jumped up, pushing his chair
back, yawned elaborately in sign that he didn't care anything for
presentiments, and throwing himself on the bed went to sleep. During the
night he shivered from time to time without waking up. In the morning he
rode out of town between his two seconds, talking of indifferent things,
and looking right and left with apparent detachment into the heavy
morning mists shrouding the flat green fields bordered by hedges. He
leaped a ditch, and saw the forms of many mounted men moving in the fog.
"We are to fight before a gallery, it seems," he muttered to himself,
bitterly.

His seconds were rather concerned at the state of the atmosphere, but
presently a pale, sickly sun struggled out of the low vapours, and
Captain D'Hubert made out, in the distance, three horsemen riding a
little apart from the others. It was Captain Feraud and his seconds. He
drew his sabre, and assured himself that it was properly fastened to his
wrist. And now the seconds, who had been standing in close group with
the heads of their horses together, separated at an easy canter, leaving
a large, clear field between him and his adversary. Captain D'Hubert
looked at the pale sun, at the dismal fields, and the imbecility of the
impending fight filled him with desolation. From a distant part of
the field a stentorian voice shouted commands at proper intervals: Au
pas--Au trot--