Edwards Henry Sutherland
Old and New Paris: Its History, Its People, and Its Places, v. 1
To this epoch, too, belongs the duel of the Seigneur de Jensac, who insisted on fighting two adversaries at the same time. The duel was about to begin, when a friend of Jensac’s rushed on the scene, and protested against so unequal a combat. “Did you never before hear of a man fighting two antagonists?” asked the seigneur. “Yes, but you must be mad to place yourself in such a position deliberately and beforehand.” “Not at all,” replied de Jensac; “I wish to be spoken of in the papers.”
In contrast with this reckless but fundamentally good-natured gentleman, who was ready to perish for a paragraph, may be placed the virtually licensed assassin, Baron de Vitaux, called by Brantòme the “brave baron,” who began his murderous career by killing at Toulouse, with a surprise stroke, the young Baron de Soupez. He afterwards, and always with the same stroke, killed a gentleman named Gonnelion; next, the Baron de Millau; and finally the chief favourite of Henry II., Louis Béranger de Guast. The son of Millau, who had resolved to avenge his father, killed, in a duel, this assassin who never appeared in public unless accompanied by the two brothers Boucicault, known as “Baron de Vitaux’s lions.” Nor must we forget Bussy d’Amboise, who fought on the most trivial pretexts. A gentleman named Saint-Phal having said something about the letter “x” on a piece of embroidery, Bussy, in order to bring about a quarrel and a duel, declared that the letter was a “y.” On this important point a first combat was fought, with six combatants on each side. Bussy having been wounded, Saint-Phal retired, but only to be summoned soon afterwards to a new combat. The Captain of the King’s Guard, sent to interdict the fight, made no impression upon Bussy, who tried to pick a quarrel with him, and declared that he would appeal to the King and ask permission to meet his foe in the lists.
From 1598 to 1608 duels caused more victims than the civil wars. It has been calculated that during this period nearly eight thousand gentlemen perished in single combat. Henry IV. himself followed the fashion; but unable from his regal position to fight in person, he fought by procuration. In presence of the Duke de Guise he had shown some jealousy in regard to Bassompierre, who had been much struck by Mlle. d’Antraigues. The duke offered to avenge the aggrieved monarch, and his proposition being accepted, a duel took place. Bassompierre received a lance wound from which he with difficulty recovered. But soon afterwards Henry IV. was himself obliged to issue an order against duelling, which was little more than a reproduction of the one put forth by his predecessor. He charged the constable, the marshals of France, and the governors of provinces to see that his commands were obeyed. The offenders were innumerable, but the king at the last moment mitigated in almost every case the severity of his edict. Thus, in the course of nineteen years seven thousand “letters of grace” were issued.
Thanks to the clemency of Henry IV., the number of duels fought in France increased to such a point that in the reign of Louis XIII. the tragic custom seemed to have reached its height.
Two gentlemen, the Vicomte d’Allemagne and the Sieur de la Roque, fought, on some mere question of precedence, a duel in which, holding each other by the left hand, they exchanged poniard stabs with the right. Another pair of combatants, inspired with deadly and ferocious hatred, shut themselves up together in an empty barrel, and cut each other’s throats with knives. In process of time, however, a series of edicts were issued against judicial duelling. The practice received its severest blow in 1626 from Richelieu, who inspired an edict regulating the penalties according to the gravity of the offences. Praslin, who was the first to infringe this edict, was exiled and despoiled of his possessions. But the most remarkable infraction was that which cost the Count de Bouteville his head. He was a notorious bully, and had been known in this character since 1621. He had already crossed swords with the Count de Pont-Gibaut, the Marquis de Portes, and the Count de Thorigny, to mention no other names; and in 1627 he took upon himself, in defiance of the law, to fight the Baron de la Frette and the Marquis de Beuvron. This last duel was fatal to him. He had been foolhardy enough to draw swords with the marquis on the Place Royale and in broad daylight. The marquis fled to England, but Bouteville found his way to the scaffold. Before his execution, Richelieu had said to Louis XIII.:
“It is a question of cutting the throat, either of these duels or of your Majesty’s edicts.” The exemplary punishment inflicted upon Bouteville did not, however, by any means exterminate duelling. Even ecclesiastics at this period went through a course of training at the fencing academies. Men of letters frequently laid down the pen for the sword. To know how to administer cold steel became the height of ambition with fashionable Parisians. The most desperate duellist of the time was Cyrano de Bergerac, who would challenge on the spot anyone who looked at him, or anyone who did not look at him.
The contagion of the duel spread even to the gentler sex. Two ladies of the court fought at Paris with pistols. The King, when he heard of it, smiled and said that his prohibition had only been aimed at men. The troubles of the Fronde still further increased the number of sword-drawing swaggerers in Paris. One duel which occurred during the civil feuds that disturbed the earlier years of Louis XIV.’s reign, caused an extraordinary sensation. It had its origin in a letter supposed to have dropped from the pocket of the Count de Coligny, one of the tenants of Mme. de Longueville. The missive was compromising to the lady-writer, whoever she might be; and, in connection therewith, the Duchess de Montbazon spread certain scandalous rumours, for which Mme. de Longueville demanded, and obtained, an apology. But with this reparation the offended lady was not content. She urged Coligny to challenge one of the favourites of Montbazon, the Duke of Guise, to fight him. The duel took place on the Place Royale at three o’clock on the 12th of December, 1643. Guise, as he grasped the hilt of his sword, said to Coligny: – “We are going to decide the ancient quarrels of our two houses, and we shall soon see the difference there is between the blood of Guise and the blood of Coligny.” Thereupon the adversaries fell to their work. Coligny, in making a gigantic thrust, slipped and fell on his knee. Guise hastened to put his foot on his shoulder, and said: “I do not wish to kill you – I simply treat you as you deserve for having dared to challenge a member of my house without cause.” Then he struck the count with the flat of his sword. Coligny threw himself backwards and disengaged his weapon, whereupon the fight recommenced. Guise, however, terminated it by means of a tremendous blow which he dealt his adversary on the arm. At the same moment fell both of the seconds – d’Estrades and Bridieux – who had run each other through. This was the last of the famous duels fought on the Place Royale. Mme. de Longueville had witnessed it, concealed behind a window of the Hôtel de Rohan.
Nine years later took place the celebrated and sanguinary duel between the Duke de Nemours and the Duke de Beaufort. They quarrelled at Orleans, where Nemours had cried out, in presence of Beaufort, “The prince is being deceived, and I know by whom!” “Name him,” said Beaufort. “You, yourself!” answered Nemours. Beaufort’s reply was a box on the ear, instantly returned by Nemours; and they would at once have crossed swords had not Mlle. de Montpensier been present. On the day fixed for the duel, in the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, the two brothers-in-law seemed to have become reconciled. But some question of precedence revived the bad feeling between them. “M. de Beaufort,” relates the Duchess de Montpensier, “did all he could to avoid the meeting. He set forth, among other reasons, that he had a number of gentlemen with him ready to take part in the duel, while his antagonist had only a few. Monsieur de Nemours returned to his house, where he found awaiting him just as many gentlemen as were required. He went back to M. de Beaufort, and they fought in the horse market, at the back of the Hôtel de Vendôme. M. de Nemours had with him Villiers, the Chevalier de La Chaise, Campan, and Luzerche. M. de Beaufort had the Count de Bury, de Ris, Brillet, and Héricourt. The Count de Bury was severely wounded. De Ris and Héricourt died in the course of the day. None of the others were wounded, except very slightly. M. de Nemours had brought with him swords and pistols. The latter had been loaded at his house. M. de Beaufort said to his adversary: ‘Brother, what a shame! Let us forget and be friends.’ M. de Nemours cried out to him: ‘No, scoundrel! you must kill me or I will kill you.’ He fired his pistol, which missed, and rushed upon M. de Beaufort, sword in hand, so that the latter was obliged to defend himself. He fired, and shot Nemours dead with three balls that were in the pistol.”
Under Louis XIV. no less than twelve edicts were issued against duelling. One of the last, published in 1704, promised lawful satisfaction for outraged honour. To give the lie, to strike with the hand or with a stick, were offences punishable with imprisonment. Anyone who had received a box on the ears was entitled to return it. But the royal commands remained without effect. Among the great duellists of Louis XIV.’s reign must be mentioned the Duke de Richelieu, who did as much to promote duelling as the famous cardinal of the same name had done in the previous reign to prevent it. He not only fought duels himself, but was the cause of duels on the part of others; and of ladies above all. In his various encounters he severely wounded the Duke de Bourbon, ran Prince de Lixen through the body, and killed Baron Pontereider. The two ladies who fought at his instigation were Mme. de Nesle and Mme. de Polignac. “Take the first shot,” said the last-named antagonist. Mme. de Nesle fired and missed. “Anger makes the hand tremble,” observed Mme. de Polignac, with a malicious smile. Taking aim in her turn, she cut off the tip of her adversary’s ear; whereupon poor Mme. de Nesle fell to the ground as if mortally wounded.
Two years before the outbreak of the Revolution a sub-lieutenant of the Fourth Hussars was chosen by his comrades to avenge an insult offered to the regiment by a fencing-master. The adversaries had just crossed swords when the officer found himself pulled violently back by someone who had got hold of his pigtail. It was the colonel of his regiment, who had come to stop the duel and to place his subaltern under arrest. This young officer was Michel Ney, afterwards Napoleon’s famous marshal. On being liberated from prison, Ney sought out the fencing-master, challenged him, and gave him a wound which injured him for life. Hearing, some years later, that the poor man had fallen into the greatest distress, Ney, at that time a general, settled a pension upon him. After the Republic duels were fought as much as ever; but the pistol had now replaced the sword. Talma, the celebrated actor, fought a pistol duel with an actor named Naudet, in which neither was injured; and about the same time shots were exchanged between two members of the National Assembly, Barnave and Cazalès. Barnave missed Cazalès, and Cazales having twice missed Barnave, apologised for his want of skill and for keeping his adversary waiting so long. "I am only here for your satisfaction," said Barnave. "I should be very sorry to kill you," answered Cazales while the pistols were being reloaded, "but you caused us a great deal of trouble. All I desire is to keep you away from the Assembly for a little time." "I am more generous," replied Barnave. "I desire scarcely to touch you, for you are the only orator on your side, whilst on mine my loss would in no way be felt." Barnave's second shot struck Cazalès on the forehead, but the ball had expended its force on the point of his cocked hat.
Charles Lameth, Mirabeau, and Camille Desmoulins likewise fought duels. Camille Desmoulins had the courage, however, to refuse to settle by arms quarrels of a political kind. "I should have," he said on one occasion, "to pass my life in the Bois de Boulogne if I were obliged to give satisfaction to all who took offence at the frankness of my speech. Let them call me a coward if they like. I fancy the time is not far off when opportunities for dying more gloriously and more usefully will present themselves."
Napoleon did his utmost to stop duelling, but with scarcely more success than his predecessors on the throne. Under the Restoration duels were constantly being fought between the officers of the King's army and Napoleonic officers on half-pay. Benjamin Constant, the famous writer and politician, fought a duel in which, as he was too weak to stand, both antagonists were accommodated with armchairs. This comfortable arrangement was not attended by fatal results. M. Thiers fought a remarkable duel with the father of the young lady to whom he was engaged to be married. Being without means, he wished to postpone the marriage from year to year, till at last the indignant parent insisted on satisfaction. M. Thiers, with the historian Mignet as one of his seconds, received the old gentleman's bullet between his legs without returning the shot. Writers at this period seem to have frequently found themselves compelled to throw down the pen and snatch up the sword or the pistol. General Gourgaud challenged the author of "The History of the Russian Campaign," and slightly wounded him in the duel which ensued. A young cavalry officer, Beaupoil de Sainte-Aulaire by name, having published a political pamphlet under the title of "Funeral Oration of the Duke de Feltre," was immediately called out by the duke's son. Hardly scratched in the encounter, he was challenged a second time by a cousin of the deceased, who killed him with a sword-thrust in the breast.
The Chamber of Deputies in 1819, and the Chamber of Peers in the year following, debated the question of definitive legislation on the subject of duelling; but their deliberations came to nothing. Shortly afterwards literature contributed another victim to the insatiable Moloch of "honour," in the person of a highly talented poet named Dovalle. He had attacked, in some journal, a theatrical director; and the offensive article cost him his life. At the time when the Duchess de Berry was under arrest the editor of the Legitimist journal, the Revenant, called at the office of the Tribune to demand satisfaction for an article directed against the duchess. The immediate result was a second article in the Tribune defying the advocates of the fair prisoner; and so strong a spirit of partisanship was now excited on either side that students from the schools rushed in crowds to enroll their names at the offices of the antagonistic journals. Two small armies having thus been raised, a letter, signed by Godefroi Cavaignac, Armand, Marrast, and Garderin, was addressed to the Revenant in these terms: "We send you a first list of twelve persons. We demand, not twelve simultaneous duels, but twelve successive duels – time and place as may be conveniently arranged. No excuses, no pretexts, no cowardly evasion; this would avail you nothing, and of this you would have to bear the consequences. Henceforth, between your party and ours, there is a drawn sword. There will be no truce, except when one yields to the other." The Legitimist party did not choose to accept the challenge in so generalised a form. It entrusted its cause to the hands of M. Roux-Laborie, who fought a duel with Armand Carrel, the appointed champion of the opposite side. Carrel received an almost fatal wound in the stomach; nor was this the last combat which the arrest of the Duchess de Berry occasioned. Tragedy and comedy were often intermingled in the duelling of the period. There was one well-known swaggerer, an ex-body-guard named Choquart, who was so enormously vain of the reputation he had gained for drawing his sword that, when once a pedestrian had, accidentally, with his elbow pulled it partly out of the sheath as the two men were passing each other in the street, Choquart pulled it out altogether and exclaimed: – “The wine is drawn, and now you must drink it!” “Many thanks,” was the cool reply; “but I never take anything between meals.”
A list of the duels of this epoch would be too formidable; though mention can scarcely be omitted of the one fought between Armand Carrel and Émile de Girardin, in which the fatal wound received by Carrel was a serious blow to the Democratic cause of which he was so great a champion. It is certain that no one afterwards regretted his death so keenly as the man whose bullet had pierced him; and when, on the second of May, 1848, a concourse of workmen, national guards, and students from the Polytechnic School reassembled at Carrel’s grave in the cemetery of Saint-Mandé to pay homage to his memory, it was Girardin himself who made the most pathetic speech over the sleeping democrat. In this speech he expressed a hope that the provisional government would crown the splendid work which Carrel had done by abolishing the duel – that appeal to arms to which he so keenly regretted ever having had recourse. Since then there have been repeated agitations in favour of this abolition, but without result. Duels in France, though seldom serious nowadays, are still fought frequently and with comparative impunity.
The leading trait in the French national character is doubtless gaiety. We have seen how, after the first sentiment of horror excited by the guillotine had subsided, ladies in Paris wore miniature guillotines as ear-rings; and we might have mentioned the case of a famous French epicure who used a small guillotine for cutting up his dinner. In like manner duels have been made the subject of endless pleasantries in France, and a good-sized volume could be made up of duelling anecdotes. A few specimens, however, must suffice us here.
M. de Langerie and M. de Montendre, both exceedingly ugly, were drawn up against each other in single combat. Suddenly de Langerie exclaimed: “I cannot fight you. You really must excuse me. I have an invincible reason.” “And what is it, pray?” inquired the foe. “Why, this: if I fight, I shall, to all appearances, kill you, and remain the ugliest man in the kingdom.” De Montendre yielded. A ballad-writer, known by numerous successes, had a quarrel. An intimate friend interposed his authority, ascertained the exact nature of the difference, and promised to settle it. A few moments afterwards he returned. “The affair,” he said “is arranged. I had only to speak and we were instantly agreed.” “That is good,” replied the writer of ballads, visibly relieved. “Yes,” said the amiable intercessor, grasping his friend by the hand; “it is arranged. You fight to-morrow morning at five.”
A fastidious duellist, who was ready to fight about any trifle, “to find a quarrel in a straw,” as Hamlet expresses it, had taken umbrage at something said by an entirely inoffensive man. He sent his seconds to wait upon this person and to say that he would fight him at a distance of twenty-five paces. “I agree,” replied the recipient of the challenge; “but since you have regulated the distance, the choice of arms must rest with me – I name the sword.”
Romieu, renowned for his spirit of pleasantry, received one day, from a barren scribbler who had been educated at the École de Droit, the manuscript of a play accompanied by the following letter: “Sir, – I herewith submit a piece to which I beg you to give your very careful attention. I accept beforehand any alterations which you may think fit to make in it, with this exception – that I am most punctilious about the philosophical reflections remaining untouched.” A few days afterwards the author received back his manuscript with this reply: “Sir, – I have read your work with the greatest attention. I leave to you the choice of arms.” Fortunately it was ink alone, and not blood, which was spilt in the affair.
At the time when Sainte-Beuve was contributing to the Globe he quarrelled with a member of the staff of that journal. A duel was arranged; when the combatants arrived on the ground it was raining in torrents; Sainte-Beuve had come provided with an umbrella and with flint pistols of the sixteenth century. At the moment when the adversaries were to pull their triggers Sainte-Beuve was still carefully shielding himself from the elements with his umbrella. The seconds protested, but Sainte-Beuve refused to get wet. “I don’t mind being killed,” he exclaimed; “but I decline to catch cold.” The duel then proceeded, Sainte-Beuve levelling his pistol with one hand and holding up his umbrella with the other. Four shots were exchanged, but without injury on either side.
Cyrano de Bergerac, of whom mention has already been made, was the most ferocious duellist of his time. His nose, of inordinate length, had received such a number of dents that it was quite a curiosity. He was very touchy on this subject, and would allow no one to look at him pointedly. More than ten men expiated with their lives some satirical glance at him, or some ill-sounding word uttered in his presence.
A certain bravo challenged an apothecary, by whom he conceived himself insulted. The duel was arranged, and the adversaries duly met, each accompanied by two seconds. One of the seconds of the aggrieved man held out a pair of swords, and the other a brace of pistols.
“Sir,” cried the bravo, “choose weapons. Pistol and sword are the same thing to me.” “That is all very well,” replied the apothecary, “but I do not see why you should impose your arms upon me; I think I have as much right, and more, to impose mine on you.” “Good. What are your arms?” was the reply. The apothecary took a little box from his pocket, opened it, and presented it to his adversary. “There are two pills,” he said: “one is poisoned and the other harmless. Choose!” The affair ended in laughter.
The Marquis de Rivarolles, who had just lost one of his legs in battle, uttered certain words offensive to Madillan, Schomberg’s aide-de-camp. He was challenged. The marquis appointed his surgeon to act as second. The surgeon promptly waited upon Madillan, but introduced himself without mentioning either his profession or the reply he was authorised to give. He simply displayed his case of surgical instruments. Madillan, mystified, inquired whether the visitor was the representative of de Rivarolles. “I am,” he said. “M. de Rivarolles is quite ready to fight you, according to your desire; but, convinced that a man as brave and generous as yourself would not like to fight at a disproportionate advantage, he has ordered me to take one of your legs off beforehand, so that the chances between you will be equal.” Madillan was enraged at this extraordinary proposition; but the duel was, in the end, prevented by Marshal de Schomberg, who succeeded in reconciling the adversaries.
Voltaire had recourse to a custom which he had himself energetically condemned. Dining one day at the Duke de Sully’s, he happened, in the course of a discussion, to raise his voice a little. “Who is that young man contradicting me so loudly?” asked the Chevalier de Rohan-Chabot. “He is a man,” replied Voltaire, “who does not boast a great name, but who honours the name he bears.” The chevalier did not reply, but a few days afterwards he caused Voltaire to be waylaid and beaten by half a dozen ruffians. After having vainly tried to persuade the Duke de Sully to espouse his cause, Voltaire determined to trust solely to his own personal courage. He took fencing-lessons, and as soon as he was able to handle a sword, waited upon the chevalier in his box at the Théâtre Français. “Sir,” he said, “unless some business affair has caused you to forget the insult which I suffered at your hands, I hope you will afford me satisfaction.” This was one of those arrows, barbed with irony, which Voltaire knew so well how to throw. “Some business affair” was a phrase which the chevalier could not decently bear. He accepted the challenge, but without intending to fight. Instead of crossing swords with the young poet he caused him to be thrown into the Bastille for having presumed to call out so great a personage.
That most amiable of men, La Fontaine, once persuaded himself, or rather allowed himself to be persuaded, that he ought to be jealous of his wife. The circumstances were these. He was on terms of close friendship with an old captain of dragoons, retired from service, named Poignant; a gentleman distinguished by candour and good nature. So much time as Poignant did not spend at the tavern he passed at the house of La Fontaine, and often in the society of his wife when the poet happened not to be at home. One day someone asked La Fontaine how it was that he permitted Poignant to visit him every day. “Why should he not? he is my best friend,” was the reply. “That is scarcely what the public say. They maintain that he only goes to see Mme. La Fontaine.” “The public are wrong. But what ought I to do in the matter?” “You must demand satisfaction, sword in hand, of the man who has dishonoured you.” “Very well,” said the fabulist, “satisfaction I will demand.” On the morrow, at four in the morning, he called upon Poignant, whom he found in bed. “Get up,” he said, “and let us go out together.” His friend asked why he wanted him, and what urgent affair had brought La Fontaine out of bed at such an hour. “I will tell you,” was the answer, “after we have gone hence.” Poignant, quite mystified, arose, dressed, and then inquired to what place the poet was taking him. “You will soon see,” replied La Fontaine, who, when they had both quitted the house and reached a sufficiently retired spot, said with solemnity, “My friend, we must fight.” Poignant, more puzzled than ever, asked in what way he had offended. “Besides,” he added, “I am a soldier, and you scarcely know how to hold a sword.” “No matter,” replied La Fontaine; “the public wishes me to fight you.” Poignant, after protesting for a long time in vain, at length drew his sword from complaisance, and easily disarmed La Fontaine. Then he inquired the meaning of the whole affair. “The public declare,” said La Fontaine, “that you come every day to my house to see, not me, but my wife.” “My dear friend,” returned Poignant, “I should never have suspected you of such a misgiving, and I promise henceforth never to set foot across your threshold.” “On the contrary,” said La Fontaine, shaking the captain by the hand, “I have done what the public wanted, and I now wish you to continue your visits to my house with more regularity than ever.”
Let us conclude with an anecdote concerning another duel which the “public” would have liked to see fought, but which never came to pass, because the aggrieved party had a great weakness for keeping lead and steel out of his body. A certain marquis had been thrashed with a walking-stick, but showed no disposition to take vengeance on his castigator. “Why doesn’t he appeal to arms?” people inquired – to which the witty Sophie Arnould replied: “Because he has too much good sense to take any notice of what goes on behind his back.”
