Who was there to whom I could apply? Sir Guy, of course, was out of the question. Then, in an affair of such delicacy, I could not consult a _young_ man; besides, these boys, I fancy, are always for fighting, right or wrong. A woman was no use, or I should have gone straight back to Lady Scapegrace. I pondered matters over and over again. I thought of every horror in the way of duelling I had ever heard of.
My own uncle was shot dead by a Frenchman when attached to the army of occupation at Cambray. It was a romantic story, and I had often heard the particulars from my godfather, General Grape, who officiated as his second. My uncle was a handsome, chivalrous youth, deeply attached to a countrywoman of his own, whose picture he wore constantly next his heart. Such a man was not likely to become compromised with another lady. It happened, however, that my uncle was quartered in the vicinity of a château belonging to a retired general of the Grand Army, who hated an Englishman as a matter of taste, and a British officer as a matter of duty.
The French general had a charming daughter, and Rosalie, besides being _belle comme le jour_, was likewise what her acquaintance called _tant soit peu coquette_. So she made love to my uncle on every available opportunity, and of course, because he didn't care for her two pins, set her faithless heart upon him, as a woman will. To make things simpler, she was herself engaged to a young marquis in the neighbourhood. Well, my uncle, like a sensible man, did his best to keep clear of the whole thing, but he could not avoid meeting Rosalie occasionally in his walks, nor could he absolutely refuse to make her acquaintance, or refrain from perusing the letters she wrote to him, or, finally, prevent that forward young person from falling into his arms, and bursting into tears, with her head on his shoulder. The moment was, however, ill-chosen for so dramatic a scene, inasmuch as it occurred under the very noses of her father and her _fiancé_, both of whom, unknown to the fair wanderer, had followed Rosalie, on purpose to find out where it was she walked day after day so perseveringly.
My uncle had scarcely recovered his surprise at the first demonstration ere he was staggered by the second--"_Malheureuse!_" exclaimed the father; "_Perfide!_" groaned the lover; "_Traître!_" shouted the marquis; "_Lâche!_" growled the general. My uncle turned from one to the other, completely at a nonplus, Rosalie in the meantime clinging to his breast and imploring him passionately to save her! My uncle's waistcoat came undone--his real mistress's miniature dropped out; the sight added fuel to the fire of the belligerents. Nothing would satisfy them but his blood. In vain he protested, in vain he swore, in extremely bad French, that he had no _penchant_ for Rosalie, had never made love to her in his life; in fact, rather disliked her than otherwise.