"You are ready?" he enquired civilly.
"Ready!"
"Shall we say twelve paces?"
"Excellent!"
Deliberately Fontenelle dug his heel into the ground and measured
twelve paces from that mark between himself and his antagonist. Then
with cold courtesy he stood aside for Miraudin to assure himself
that the measurement was correct. The actor complied with this
formality in a sufficiently composed way, and with a certain grace
and dignity which Fontenelle might almost have taken for bravery if
he had not been so convinced that the man was "acting" still in his
mind, and was going through a "part" which he disliked, but which he
was forced to play. And with it all there was something indefinable
about him--something familiar in the turn of his head, the glance of
his eye, the movement of his body, which annoyed Fontenelle, because
he saw in all these little personal touches such a strong
resemblance to himself. But there was now no time to think, as the
moment for the combat drew near. Jeanne Richaud was still weeping
hysterically and expostulating with the cab-driver, who paid no
attention whatsoever to her pleadings, but remained obstinately on
his knees out of harm's way, begging the "Santissima Madonna" and
all his "patron saints" to see him safely with his fiacre back to
the city.
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