was a dead shot, was walking with a lady
in the Palais Royal, when a Bonapartist
officer, a notorious duellist, after announcing
that he intended to bully an "Anglais,"
proceeded to place his arm round the lady's waist.
On being remonstrated with, he replied by spitting
in Captain Gronow's face, and was instantly
felled to the ground for his filthy impertinence.
A meeting took place the following morning, the
Frenchman bragging that he intended to add
an Englishman to his list of killed and wounded.
He fired, and singed his opponent's whiskers,
and in a few seconds was shot through the
heart. Gronow having afterwards to fight with
the French officer's second, was content to
wound his adversary in the knee—an act of
forbearance which brought the captain no less
than eleven challenges. The French Minister
of War, however, interfered, and no more
meetings took place.

One of the most celebrated of these duellists,
the Count de Larillière, was a native of
Bordeaux. He was at the time of my story a
man of between thirty-five and forty years of
age, tall, well made, and with polished
manners; in short, his appearance utterly belied
the good-for-nothing kind of life he was in the
habit of leading. One day while he was walking
with a friend, or, rather, an accomplice,
in the most frequented street of Bordeaux,
he saw approaching them, on the same side
of the way, one of the richest and most
honourable merchants of the town with his
newly married wife upon his arm. When the
young couple were within hearing, Larillière
advanced courteously towards them, hat in hand,
and with a smile upon his lips, and with all the
outward semblance of a well-bred man, who is
about to deliver himself of a speech of more
than ordinary politeness. "I beg your pardon,"
said he, addressing himself to the merchant,
who with his wife had abruptly halted, "but I
have just made a bet with my friend, whom I
have the honour of presenting to you," here
he mentioned his friend's name and quality in
due form, "that I will kiss your wife on your
arm"—the husband, knowing the count's
character and reputation, here became ghastly
pale—"after having, first of all, given you a box
on the ear." Saying this, the miscreant, stared
impudently in the face of the amazed merchant,
who was, however, still more amazed to find,
spite of all the resistance he could offer, both
threats put into immediate execution. A
challenge and a meeting followed as a matter of
course, which resulted in the injured party
receiving his death wound, and the aggressor
going forth in search of new victims.

After proceeding for some time in this course,
Larillière was enabled to boast of having killed
no less than eleven individuals; of those whom
he had merely wounded, he took no kind of
account. He had fought altogether upwards of
forty duels and was bent upon making up his
dozen, after which he proposed to rest for a
time, and to continue his practice with the new
cavalry sabre, to which, as being a far more deadly
weapon than the ordinary small-sword, he had
taken a strange fancy. This laudable desire
of his was not destined to be realised, for
he was himself killed in a duel, under rather
strange circumstances, a few days after the
death of his eleventh, and last, victim.

On the evening of a masked ball at the grand
theatre at Bordeaux, Larillière was seated in
an adjoining café, which he was in the habit of
frequenting with the members of his own
particular set. It was eleven o'clock, and our
duellist, who had been for the moment
abandoned by his ordinary companions, feeling in no
particularly quarrelsome humour, was occupied
in peacefully imbibing a glass of punch.
Suddenly, a tall young man, wearing a black domino,
and with his face concealed behind a black
velvet mask, entered the café, and strode up to
the table at which Larillière was seated.

None of the ordinary habitués of the café
took any particular notice of the new comer on
his entrance, as the masked ball, which was to
take place that night, sufficiently explained his
costume; but, no sooner was the mysterious
visitor observed in the vicinity of Larillière' s
table, than all eyes were attracted towards him.
Without a single preliminary observation he
seized hold of Lariliière's glass, threw away the
punch it contained, and ordered the waiter, in a
loud voice, to bring a small bottle of orgeat in
place of it.

Witnesses of the scene say that, at this
moment, for the first time in their lives, they
observed Larillière turn pale. It was the
common belief in Bordeaux that, during the
fifteen years this man had been applying himself
to the task of destruction, he had never once
allowed his countenance to betray the slightest
emotion. "Scoundrel!" he exclaimed to his
masked adversary, "you do not know who I am,"
making, at the same moment, a vigorous, but
unsuccessful, effort to remove the mask from
the stranger's face.

"I know who you are perfectly well," coldly
replied the unknown, forcing Larillière violently
back with one hand. All present started to
their feet, and, though no one among them
ventured to approach the disputants, they
contemplated, none the less anxiously, the issue of
this strange provocation.

"Waiter," exclaimed the unknown, "be quick
with that bottle of orgeat."

At this second command the bottle was
brought: whereupon the masked man, still
standing immediately in front of Larillière, who
was foaming at the mouth with rage, proceeded
to draw a pistol from his right-hand pocket.
Then, addressing his adversary, he said:

"If in the presence of this company, and for
my own personal satisfaction, you do not at once
swallow this glass of orgeat, I will blow out your
brains with as little compunction as I would
those of a dog. Should you, however, perform
my bidding, I will then do you the honour of
fighting with you to-morrow morning."

"With the sabre?" asked Larillière, in a
paroxysm of rage.