De Gautet advanced, saluting with a flourish; in his padding he looked like some kind of sausage-doll, but his eyes were bright and nasty through the spectacles. I didn’t salute, but came on guard sabre-fashion, right hand up above my head and blade slanting down before my face.

“Salute!” snaps Bismark.

“Pish to you!” says I, guessing that it would offend his fine Teutonic spirit to ignore the formalities. I was getting cocky, you see, because all this paraphernalia had convinced me that the business wasn’t really serious at all. I’m not a sabre expert—a strong swordsman rather than a good one, was how the master-at-arms in the 11th Hussars had described me—and if I have to use one I’d rather it wasn’t in single combat, but in a mêlée where you can hang about on the outskirts, roaring your heart out and waiting for an opponent with his back turned. However, it seemed to me now that I ought to be able to guard the unprotected areas that de Gautet would be cutting at.

He came on guard, the blades grated between us, and then he twitched his wrist, quick as light right and left, aiming deft little cuts at the sides of my head. But Flashy’s nobody’s fool; I turned my wrist with his, and caught the cuts on my own blade. He cut again, and the blade rang on my cap, but I broke ground and let go a regular roundhouse slash at him, like a dragoon full of drink. With the schlager, I learned later, you are supposed to employ only wrist cuts, but I was just an ignorant foreigner. My sweep, if it had landed, would have loosed Mr de Gautet’s guts all over the floor, but he was quick and turned it with the forte of his blade.

He came in again, on guard, his narrow eyes on mine, and the blades rasped together. He feinted and cut hard, but I was there again, and as we strained against each other I sneered at him over the crossed blades and exerted all my strength to bear down his guard. I felt his blade giving before mine, and then it whirled like lightning and it was as though a red-hot iron had been laid against my right temple. The pain and shock of it sent me staggering back, I dropped my schlager and grabbed at my face, and as Bismarck jumped between us I saw the most unpleasant sight I know, which is my own blood; it coursed down my cheek and on to my hand, and I howled and dabbed at the wound to try to staunch it.

“Halt!” cries Bismarck, and strode over to inspect my wound—not because he gave a tuppenny damn about me, but to see if it was in the right place. He seized my head and peered. “To an inch!” he exclaimed, and tipped his hand triumphantly to de Gautet, who smirked and bowed.