“Fahren sie fort!” cries Bismarck, stepping back, and signing to me to pick up my schlager. Shaking with pain and rage, and with the blood feeling as though it were streaming out of me, I told him what he could do with it; I wasn’t going to stand up to be cut to bits for his amusement.

He went red with fury. “Pick it up,” he rasped, “or I’ll have Kraftstein hold you down and we’ll set the other scar on you with a rusty saw!”

“It’s not fair!” I shouted. “I think my skull’s fractured!”

He damned me for a coward, snatched up the schlager, and thrust it into my hand. And in case worse should happen, I squared up to de Gautet again, resolving to take the other cut as quickly as possible, and then to settle the account in my own way, if I could.

He shuffled in, full of bounce, cutting smartly right and left. I parried them, tried a quick cut of my own, and then flicked up my point to leave my left side unguarded. Instinctively he slashed at the gap, and I took it with my eyes shut and teeth gritted against the pain. My God, but it hurt, and I couldn’t repress a shriek; I reeled, but kept a tight grip on my schlager, and as de Gautet stepped back, satisfied with his butchery, and glanced towards Bismarck, I forced myself into a sudden lunge that sent my point through his lousy body.

The next thing I knew I had been hurled to the floor, and as I lay there, blinded with my own blood, all hell broke loose. Someone fetched me a tremendous kick in the ribs, I heard Rudi shouting and de Gautet groaning—delightful sound—and then I must have fainted, for when I opened my eyes I was sprawled on one of the benches, with Kraftstein sponging the blood from my face.

My first thought was: they’ll settle my hash now, for certain, and then I realised that Bismarck and de Gautet had vanished, and only young Rudi was left, grinning down at me.

“I couldn’t have done better myself,” says he. “Not much, anyhow. Our friend de Gautet won’t be quite so cock-a-hoop another time. Not that you’ve damaged him much—you barely nicked his side—but he’ll ache for a day or two. So will you, of course. Let’s have a look at your honourable scars.”

My head was aching abominably, but when he and Kraftstein had examined it, they pronounced it satisfactory—from their point of view. De Gautet had laid his cuts exactly, and provided the wounds were left open they would quickly heal into excellent scars, Kraftstein assured me.

“Give you a most distinguished appearance,” says Rudi. “All the little Prussian girls will be fluttering for you.”