battery hollowed in the rock was chosen as the
field of combat. Jean Gigon also had two
witnesses of his acquaintance. Every one, with
the exception of the old brigadier, manifested
the utmost repugnance at this duel. On reaching
the platform, the corporal addressed a few
words to the four witnesses, expressing his
regret at measuring swords with a man whose
reputation could take no harm from an
unfortunate and ill-judged expression. "But," he
added, "my colleague has explained his reasons,
and I am ready."

Jean Gigon thanked the corporal, and they
both fell upon their guard. At the first passes,
it was evident that the valiant brigadier
possessed an incontestable superiority over his
adversary. The corporal held his weapon with a
firm hand, the point directed straight at Jean
Gigon's body, and prudently kept on the defensive.

"Take care, comrade," said Jean Gigon, all
at once, "or I shall spit you." He ostentatiously
parried the corporal's thrust, and simply
indicated the threatened stroke. The corporal
did not lose his presence of mind. Two of the
witnesses of the encounter affirm that he bore a
striking likeness to Jean Gigon. The struggle
had lasted for a couple of minutes, and the
corporal's arm began to tire.

"Mind your head!" shouted Jean Gigon,
whirling his weapon rapidly. The corporal kept
his point more steadily directed than ever. Jean
Gigon rushed forward, but without striking, and
fell, transfixed by his adversary's sabre.

The corporal appeared terrified at his victory.
Two of the witnesses led him down a by-path
amongst the rocks to the sea-shore, whence he
could easily regain the high road, without being
obliged to pass through the groups of soldiers
who were loitering about to learn the result. At
six in the evening, Jean Gigon breathed his last
in the hospital of Mustapha. The whole
regiment believed that the old brigadier had
voluntarily sacrificed his life.

Jean Gigon's funeral was at once grand and
whimsical. With the consent of the commanding
officers, a deputation from every regiment in
garrison at Algiers, and in the environs of the
camp of Mustapha Pasha, attended his obsequies.
At eight in the morning, in the month of
December, the sun had not yet penetrated the
sombre clouds that had been piled mountains
high by the north-west wind. The sea roared
with increasing fury; a torrential rain was falling,
while six hundred men assembled around a
new-made grave, to bid adieu to their companion
in arms. Jean Gigon was laid, with tenderness
and precaution, in his final bed of pebbles and
sand. His intimate friends passed one by one
before him, lifting the sheet that covered his
manly face, to take a last farewell. "Adieu,
Jean Gigon!" was repeated in a successive
variety of mournful tones. At the close of the
defile, out stepped a tall, emaciated figure, whom
everybody believed to be in bed with fever, in
the hospital, and in hollow tones pronounced
the following incredible oration:

"Messieurs and comrades! Before the earth
is for ever closed over the grave around which
you have so numerously assembled, I ought to
fulfil the last wishes of the deceased, who
yesterday, by accident, was placed beside the bed
occupied by his oldest comrade in the corps.
'Godard,' said Jean Gigon, taking me by the
hand—by this hand which I now stretch towards
you—'Godard, promise me to fulfil my last
wish.' 'If the rules of religion are not opposed
to it, you may reckon upon me,' I answered.
'Tell me all about the matter.' He told me;
and I swore to do it!

"I might," continued Godard, "have called
for a general subscription, to execute Jean
Gigon's last wishes; but my own private
resources were sufficient. 'Godard,' he said, just
before breathing his last, 'you know how I have
loved the juice of the grape. Well! Promise
to lay a bottleful of wine underneath my head,
by way of a pillow. I do not care about a high-
priced sample; don't put yourself to any great
expense; but oblige me in this, and I shall die
more easy.' I swore to oblige him, as I have
told you; and my poor dear Gigon uttered only
one word more—'Marie!'—and gave up the
ghost. I now proceed to perform my promise."

Godard—whose harangue was pronounced in
a sonorous voice that rose above the raging of
the tempest—stretched out his left arm, hitherto
covered by his cloak, and displayed to the
astonished crowd a bottle of wine carefully sealed
with black wax. Then, stooping his lofty person,
with his right hand he raised Jean Gigon's
head, and gently slipped the bottle beneath it.
As he rose, he covered his old friend's face with
the winding-sheet, shouting to the Chasseurs in
attendance, "Now for the last salute!"

The bacchanalian testament was ultimately
carried out to a greater extent than the testator
had dared to anticipate. The spot where Jean
Gigon was laid, was subsequently transformed
into a public-house garden, where sportsmen
now enjoy their bottle of wine beneath the
shade of a magnificent vine, traditionally known
as Jean Gigon's vine, said to have been planted
over his grave by his old intimate, the tall Godard.

Eight years after Jean Gigon's death, an ex-
corporal of the Foreign Legion, who had settled
as a colonist in the neighbourhood of Algiers,
died of fever in one of the civil hospitals. As
the deceased was not known to have either
relations or friends, his body was taken to the
dissecting-room, where one of the surgeons
discovered an almost imperceptible blue mark on
the left temple. By the aid of a lens, he
discovered a sort of character, almost effaced by
time, resembling those by which the Arabs of
different tribes are recognised. It was something
like a flash of lightning, exactly the same
as that which the Gendarme Gigon had remarked
on the foundling he picked up on the road. The
entry of the corporal's admission at the hospital
gave no other clue to his family than this:
"Supposed to be born in 1800, of unknown father
and mother." By what horrible fatality was
this mysterious mark found on the temple of the
man who had been Jean Gigon's last adversary?