this conflict, the prostrate Lagarde was not altogether idle; he bit off a portion of his adversary’s chin, fractured his skull with the pommel of his sword, and “only lost his courage with his life.” During this scene, the seconds were amusing themselves also in fencing, until one of them was laid dead on the field of honour. This Lagarde, it appears, was as concise in his epistolary style as in his colloquial eloquence during a fight: the following is a copy of one of his letters to a man whom he was determined to despatch. “I have reduced your home to ashes; I have dishonoured your wife, and hanged your children; and I now have the honour to be your mortal enemy—Lagarde.”
It has already been stated, that during the reign of Henry IV. four thousand gentlemen lost their lives in single combat; and, by the statement of Daudiguier, this monarch granted fourteen thousand pardons for duelling. It was in vain that the wise Sully exerted his influence to check this execrable practice; the following extract from his Memoirs affords a striking illustration of the times:—
It was in consequence of the constant remonstrance of this minister that Henry issued various prohibitory edicts, which criminated duellists as guilty of lèse-majesté, and punished the offence with death. The edict of Blois, in 1602, not only condemned both the challenger and the challenged, with their seconds, to death, and confiscation of their goods; but further ordered that all offended parties should submit their complaints to the governor of their province, to be laid before the constable and marshals of France. This was the origin of the jurisdiction of the “point of honour,” which may, however, be partly referred to an edict of Charles IX. of 1566, but which was only embodied as a code under Louis XIV.
Bellieme, then chancellor of France, maintained that duels would not cease until the King ceased to intermeddle with them; but, if left to him, he would soon put a stop to the practice by refusing a pardon to all offenders; observing, that the most forward to fight would draw back, if, whatever were to be the issue of the duel, they saw that death was inevitable. Such was the course adopted by the Prince de Melfi, who commanded the army in Piedmont, and who obliged both the challengers and the offenders to fight upon a narrow bridge without rails or parapet, and guarded at both extremities, so that there was no escaping from drowning, or being run through the body.
It appears that all these edicts, notwithstanding the severity of their formulary, were unheeded, and seldom or never carried into execution; indeed, there were as many saving clauses and loop-holes in these decrees as in any of our modern acts of parliament, through which it has been truly observed, one could drive a coach and four: for instance, while duels were denounced as impious and infamous, it was provided that the offended parties should have the power of applying to the sovereign through the marshals of France for permission to fight; another clause specified that “a person who demanded a battle without sufficient reason, should be dismissed with shame:” but there is not a single instance of the application of this law upon record; and D’Audiguier observes, “that as the King never granted permission to fight to any applicant, and had frequently refused it, it was evident that there was no use in making an application, therefore the parties came to blows without any reference to authority, and were, with very few exceptions, pardoned by the royal clemency.” Sully observes on this subject, “that the facility with which the King forgave duels tended to multiply them, and hence these fatal examples pervaded the court, the town, and the kingdom.”
Montaigne says on this subject, that he verily believes, “if three Frenchmen were put into the Libyan desert, they would not be a month there without quarrelling and fighting;” and Hardouin de Perefix, Bishop of Rhodes, observes, in his Life of Henry IV, “that the madness of duels did seize the spirits of the nobility and gentry so much, that they lost more blood by each other’s hands in time of peace, than had been shed by their enemies in battle.” Chevalier, in his work called “Les Ombres des Defunts,” asserts that, in the province of Limousin alone, in the space of six or seven months, there were killed one hundred and twenty gentlemen.
But such is the empire of prejudice, and the contagion of fashion, that Sully frankly avows that he was nigh quarrelling with his royal master for having had the imprudence to consent to be present at a duel, when Henry IV. briefly told him that he deserved to lose his head for having dared to assume a regal power in the precincts of his court; and most probably the minister would have been disgraced, but for the interference of the ladies of the court.
In fact, these edicts, like many other criminal laws, defeated their own intention by their severity, which would have rendered their application as ferocious as the offences which they were to punish; they were thus rendered illusive in practice, however praiseworthy they might have been in theory—the one neutralizing the operation of the other. Sully justly observed on this subject, “that the excessive severity of the means would be the source whence would arise the principal obstacles to their execution; and frequently the penalties which produce the greatest impression are such, that one cannot apply for forgiveness.” Sully, however, failed in his laudable exertions to check this practice; and we shall find that Richelieu, whose power was much more formidable, did not meet with much greater success while endeavouring to crush the proud and unmanageable aristocracy of France.
In the midst of these scenes of blood, it affords some relief to find that there were individuals who dared the prejudice of public opinion, and, respecting the laws both of God and man, firmly resisted the practice. History records the instance of Monsieur de Reuly, a young officer, who could not be induced to fight a duel under any circumstances. Having once been grievously offended, he submitted the case to the decision of his generals, who determined it in his favour; but his opponent insisted upon a personal meeting, and sent him a challenge. De Reuly told the servant who brought it, that the person who had sent him was much in the wrong, and that he had received all the satisfaction which in justice or reason could be demanded. But the other still pressing and repeating his challenge, and that too with some insolent and provoking language, Reuly stated “that he could not accept the challenge, since God and the King had forbidden it; that he had no fear of the person who had insulted him, but feared God, and dreaded offending him; that he would go every day abroad, as he was wont, wherever his affairs should call him; and that, if any attack was made upon him, he would make his aggressor repent it.”
His adversary, unable to draw him into a duel, sought him with his second; and, having met him when only attended by his servant, attacked him, when both the principal and his second were severely wounded by him; and, assisted by his servant, he carried them both to his quarters, where he got their wounds dressed, and refreshed them with some wine: then, restoring to them their swords, he dismissed them, assuring them that no boasting of his should ever compromise their character; nor did he ever after speak of the transaction, even to the servant who had been present at the affair.
CHAPTER IX.
DUELS DURING THE REIGN OF LOUIS XIII.
During the reign of this monarch, or rather the sovereignty of his minister, private rencontres were carried on with as much ferocity as ever, and some of these meetings were attended with circumstances which rendered them as absurd as they were atrocious. In one instance we see two champions getting into a puncheon and fighting with knives; and in another two noblemen fought with daggers, holding each other by the left hand; while the 16th of January 1613 was rendered remarkable by the tragic end of Baron de Luz and his son, who were killed by the Chevalier de Guise.
The baron had met De Guise in the Rue St. Honoré, and some words arose between them relative to the death of the late De Guise, who had been assassinated at Blois by order of Henry III. The baron was on foot, De Guise on horseback; he immediately alighted, and requested the baron to draw: the old man could scarcely believe that the chevalier was in earnest, yet drew his sword in self-defence. He was aged, and for years had been out of practice; whereas his
