Varhely took from the mantelpiece the despatch he had sent from Florence, three days before, to the Princess Zilah, the one of which Vogotzine had spoken to Andras.
He handed it to the Prince, and Andras read as follows:
“I am about to risk my life for you. Tuesday evening either I shall be at Maisons-Lafitte, or I shall be dead. I fight tomorrow with Count M. If you do not see me again, pray for the soul of Varhely.”
Count Varhely had sent this despatch before going to keep his appointment with Michel Menko.
It had been arranged that they were to fight in a field near Pistoja.
Some peasant women, who were braiding straw hats, laughed as they saw the men pass by.
“Do you wish to find your sweethearts, signori? That isn’t the way!”
A little farther, Varhely and his adversary encountered a monk with a cowl drawn over his head so that only his eyes could be seen, who, holding out a zinc money-box, demanded ‘elemosina’, alms for the sick in hospitals.
Menko opened his pocketbook, and dropped in the box a dozen pieces of gold.
They arrived on the ground, and the seconds loaded the pistols.
Michel asked permission of Yanski to say two words to him.
The old Hungarian stood at his post with folded arms and lowered eyes, while Michel approached him, and said:
“Count Varhely, I repeat to you that I wished to prevent this marriage, but not to insult the Prince. I give you my word of honor that this is true. If you survive me, will you promise to repeat this to him?”
Angelo Valla was to give the signal to fire.
He stood holding a white handkerchief in his outstretched hand, and with his eyes fixed upon the two adversaries, who were placed opposite each other, with their coats buttoned up to the chin, and their pistols held rigidly by their side.
Varhely was as motionless as if made of granite. Menko smiled.
“Three!” he exclaimed, in the tone of a man pronouncing a death-sentence; and the handkerchief fell.
There were two reports in quick succession.
Varhely stood erect in his position; Menko’s ball had cut a branch above his head, and the green leaves fell fluttering to the ground.
Michel staggered back, his hand pressed to his left side.
His seconds hastened toward him, seized him under the arms, and tried to raise him.