Insulting Antoine

 “On my count, you both will proceed ten steps forward.

On my command, you will then turn to face each other, aim your pistols and fire. Is that understood?”

The two open-neck shirted men standing back-to-back, nodded in unison at the instructions.

“As each of your Seconds have failed to get you to reconcile your differences without violence, this duel is categorised as à l'outrance, where there will be no satisfaction until one party is mortally wounded. Is that clear, gentlemen?”

Again, the two men acknowledged the rules with a nod of their heads.

“Furthermore, should neither participant be hit after the first volley, the challenger will be asked for satisfaction. Should Monsieur Chevalier reject satisfaction, then we start again. Seconds?”

The two sullen-looking men on either side of the pistols table, nodded in agreement.

“Monsieur De La Grange?”

The shorter of the two men, nodded again.

“Monsieur Chevalier?”

“The sooner I kill this man, the better.”

The staid declaration caused the man pressing against Chevalier’s back to strain his neck ever-so-slightly, like he had just realised the seriousness of the situation he was about to face.

“Antoine,” he muttered. “Has this not gone far enough, mon ami?”

Antoine lowered his head a fraction, closed his eyes, took in a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. He did regret circumstances reaching this tipping point, but honour was honour and it was the duty of high society French men of the 1800s to settle disputes born of insult.

“Antoine, this has all been blown out of proportion. What if I take it back?”

“Too late,” Antoine’s clenched-teeth response growled.

“Nous sommes amis, Antoine. We are friends - since childhood.”

Antoine Chevalier and Pierre De La Grange had indeed been lifelong friends. From La rentrée – the first day of primary education in the Bavarian Alps to the Sorbonne - the leading university in Paris, they had been at each other’s side sharing knowledge, wine, and women. However, one small slip of an insult in a brothel by Pierre, shot through Antoine’s heart like a betrayal beyond all comprehension, causing a chasm of hurt that seemed to swallow up the lifelong shared memories of the two friends.

“Gentlemen,” instructed the judge. “May God be with you.”

“He can only be with one,” Antoine commented. “And I am sure zat it is not him.”

“Him, has a name, Antoine,” Pierre interjected. “I am Pierre De La Grange,” he loudly announced. “And I do not want to die over an insult!”

Pierre’s words morbidly highlighted the reality of the situation. But there seemed to be no going back. A proclamation had been made and Antoine showed no hunger for a peaceful satisfaction.

With the surrounding air electrified by testosterone-filled tension, the judge inhaled a deep breath, held it for several seconds, then shouted,

“ONE!”

Antoine took a confident step forward, but a shiver ran down his spine as he realised something was not quite right.

“Remember Bordeaux, Antoine? How we laughed and sang and frolicked those three days after graduation.”

“What are you doing?” Antoine demanded to know.

“Oui, what are you doing?” The judge incredulously asked.

“I am talking to my friend,” Pierre innocently replied.

It wasn’t the talking that took everyone by surprise. It was the fact that instead of taking a step forward, Pierre had taken a step backward, remaining shoulder blades to shoulder blades directly behind Antoine. 

“Monsieur De La Grange,” the judge’s scolding words echoed in the early misty morning. “Perhaps, I did not make myself clear on the instructions related to your duel. You are required to take each step in a forward direction.”

“But my friend is hard of hearing,” Pierre answered back. “And I need to talk to him to apologise and to tell him that this is all a ridiculous situation.”

“Now, I’m ridiculous?” Antoine replied in a slated tone of voice.”

“No, mon ami. Not you. It’s this entire state of affairs.”

“You insulted me, Pierre. Satisfaction must be had.”

“Gentlemen,” the judge interrupted. “Please return to your starting positions.”

Leaning into Pierre’s back, Antoine managed to nudge him toward their starting spot.

“We ‘ave always been close, Antoine. We vowed that we would never allow anything to come between us. What ‘as changed?”

“You insulted me one too many times.”

“It was only once!” Pierre protested. “Have you not insulted me in the past? Did I cry into my Viennoiserie pastries? No, I took it all like a man?”

“So, you now say that I am less than a man?”

“No, my over-sensitive friend. I am only stating that as friends, we should be able to say anything to each other without feelings being impaired.”

“Gentlemen! On my count,” instructed the judge once again. “ONE!”

Repeating the same manoeuvre, Pierre took a step backwards, bumping into Antoine’s back.”

“What is wrong with you, Pierre? Are you so simple minded that you cannot follow instructions?”

“You see, my old friend,” Pierre pointed out. “That is insulting. But am I upset? No. Do I want to take up arms and pursue a deadly outcome? Non! Life is full of insults. As educated French men, we should realise that words carry less weight than rocks.”

“If that is so,” Antoine replied. “Then your words must be made of boulders.”

“I admit that my tongue can sometimes be as sharp as a knife. I believe it comes with getting to an age where I am beyond participating in physical conflict. A sharp wit is a much heavier hit, my friend.”

“Did you just make that up?”

“What can I say? I ‘ave more time on my hands these days. Oh, how I miss those carefree days of summer love and autumn wine, when we rode women as fast and furious as we rode horses.”

“I ‘ave never done it with a horse,” Antoine denied.

“That is not what I mean, you silly man. Although, you did ‘ave a sweet spot for that little filly in Florence, did you not?”

“That little filly – as you so put it – was a gelding, and I was very fond of his gentle nature.”

“You paid him so much attention in that Italian stable, that I was convinced you would marry him.”

“He was a horse,” Antoine spat out. “But how can I explain that to someone who is not a horse person?”

“Ahem,” interrupted the judge. “Are we going continue the duel or would you two just like to reminisce?”

“Pardon et moi, Monsieur Hubert,” Antoine apologised. “Please continue.”

Sighing loud enough to show his growing frustration, the judge felt it necessary to chastise the two men.

“May I remind you both that if we cannot resolve this dispute, then I will ‘ave no other option than to pass the weapons to your Seconds for them to replace the both of you.”

Unsure of the ramifications of the judge’s statement, both Seconds nervously cleared their throats and protested the mention of inclusion into the violence.

“Non!” Antoine shouted, silencing the vocal dissent. “I will ‘ave satisfaction. I demand satisfaction.”

Motioning commandingly to the two combatants, the judge moved the men back to the starting position.

“Monsieur De La Grange,” he assertively instructed. “I will start my count once more. Should you fail to comply with the serious etiquette that this occasion requires, I will have no choice other than allowing Monsieur Chevalier first strike. Is that clear?”

“Antoine,” Pierre pleaded. “Can you live with my death?”

“Can you live with mine?” Antoine countered.

“No, mon ami. You are my closest friend.”

“Then, let me carry the grief,” Antoine coldly suggested.

“Gentlemen!” The judge fumed. “Say your au revoir and start walking. UN!”

Obeying, both men took one step forward.

Like a conductor in an orchestra, the relieved judge’s waving right hand oscillated in the air as he continued the count.

“DEUX!”

Again, both men took a step forward.

“TROIS!” Was the elated count cry of the judge – now getting into his rhythm. However, only Antoine took a third step forward.

“Monsieur De La Grange?” The judge brusquely demanded an explanation that was absent in its forthcoming.

Impatient at the lack of a response, the judge repeated himself – a few decibels louder and more deliberately. “Monsieur De La Grange!?”

“I am thinking,” was Pierre’s reply.

The stalling tactic was taking a toll on Antoine’s resolve, causing him to impatiently shuffle his feet on the loose gravelly path beneath them.

“Let me just shoot him and be done with it!” Antoine impudently suggested.”

“Control yourself, Monsieur Chevalier,” the judge admonished. “I will be the one to decide that option.”

 “Then decide, you imbécile.”

“Monsieur Chevalier,” the judge warned. “Isn’t one duel enough for today?”

“Pardonne-moi, Monsieur Hubert. I am at my wit’s end.”

“Then, I ‘ave decided,” the judge determined. “Under the rules of engagement – or as it is in this occurrence, a lack of engagement – I ‘ave no other option than to declare first strike. Gentlemen, please turn and face each other.”

Complying, Antoine gratefully turned to face his friend, but Pierre did not reciprocate. He remained facing the other direction, mumbling to himself.”

“Monsieur De La Grange!” The judge shouted. “You must face Monsieur Chevalier for the contest to play out… Monsieur De La…”

“I’m thinking!” Pierre shouted, cutting off the judge in mid-sentence.

“What is there to think about?” Antoine impatiently asked. “Just turn and let me fire my pistol at you.”

“I am going to slowly turn around, but don’t shoot me. I ‘ave a suggestion.”

Delicately swinging his body around, Pierre turned to face his new adversary. As soon as he was in position, he immediately threw his pistol to the ground.”

“Pierre, what are you playing at?”

“I am unarmed. The rules state that both duellists must be in possession of a weapon in which to be declared a combatant, oui?”

The grey area of the rules seemed to be lost on everyone else, who just stood shrugging their shoulders in some unified act of uncertainty.

“So,” Pierre continued. “I propose that we continue proceedings armed only with our wits.”

“Sacre Bleu!” Antoine’s exasperated profanity cut through the receding mist. “Just let me wing him a little bit and be done with it.”

“Antoine,” Pierre explained. “We ‘ave spent a lifetime together saving quips and insults to memory. Why not put them to good use now and unleash them on each other. Monsieur Hubert and our Seconds can vote on the best insult. If you win, then wouldn’t that be satisfaction enough without any blood being spilled?”

“An insult for an insult,” Antoine vocally pondered. “But what if you win?”

“Then, my incendiary insult was warranted, yes? Look, whatever the outcome, at least we can remain friends, oui?”

“I’m not so sure, Pierre.”

“Then, promise me that we won’t part as enemies. What say you?”

Antoine took a moment to process Pierre’s proposal, before seeking out the judge’s opinion.

“Please, Monsieur Chevalier,” the judge pleaded. “The hour of déjeuner approaches fast and my stomach is growling fiercely at me. The first meal of the day is très important to me. It sets my tone for the day.”

Throwing his pistol to the ground, Antoine acquiesced.

“Now,” stated Pierre. “We are armed solely with our wits. Please Antoine, why don’t you take first strike.”

“What do I say?”

“Say anything,” the judge suggested. “The quicker we get this done, the happier my intestinal tract will be.”

“Just insult me,” Pierre prompted.

“Very well,” Antoine accepted the challenge while over-thinking what to say. “I erm…  no, you, erm. Yes, you, Pierre, are an oxygen thief!”

Looking at the judge and Seconds, Antoine hoped for more than their small gesticulation of approval, but it was early rounds yet. He needed to get in the groove and to warm up a bit.

Pierre looked toward the judge for guidance, but he just waved him on, as if to say, the stage is yours.

“Antoine,” Pierre began. “Your mother is so fat that when God said let there be light, he had to shove her out of the way.”

Several impromptu chuckles from the judge and Seconds, confirmed that Pierre had taken the upper hand.

“What is it with you and my mother?” Scowled Antoine. “This is exactly how this all started.”

“Monsieur Chevalier, it is your turn, si vous plait,” the judge urged.

“Well, you are so intolerable that even your mother loves you only as a friend.”

Turning to the three panellists, their ambivalent demonstration of rotating their wrists told Antoine that he needed to try harder.

“Monsieur De La Grange?” The judge encouraged.

“I see your point, Antoine. But I still think you’re an idiot.”

Falling flat on the three panellists’ assessments, Pierre shrugged it off.

“I thought it was good,” he added.

Searching for something with more bite to it, Antoine’s face lit up like a beacon.

“Pierre, your teeth are so yellow, that when you smile, I can see the Spanish flag.”

Several exhalations of “Ooh” and the gritting of similar-coloured teeth from the gallery, suggested to Antoine that he just hit the bullseye with that one.

Presenting an open palm to Pierre, the judge encouraged a comeback.

“Well,” Pierre hit back. “You ‘ave so many gaps in your teeth that your tongue looks like it is in the Bastille.”

“What was that?” Antoine asked, confused as to the subject.

“That was not an insult, mon ami. That was just me describing you.”

“In the land of the witless, you would be king,” Antoine bit back.

“If I were the king, then you would be the fool!” Pierre snapped.

Slightly vexed at the judge laughing at that one, Antoine’s eyes threw daggers at him. Then, turning to Pierre, he retorted,

“I’d give you a nasty look too, but I see you already ‘ave one.”

Several snorts broke through the stifled giggles of the three onlookers.

“If I wanted to hear from an Ass, I would fart,” Pierre asserted.

“I’d slap you,” Antoine followed up. “But I don’t want to make your face look any better.”

“You ‘ave a face only a mother could love.”

“Again, the mother subject, Pierre. Is your memory bad because you were dropped on your head as a baby?”

“If I was dropped, then you were clearly flung against a wall.”

“What does that even mean, Pierre?”

“To tell you would insult your intelligence. That’s if you ‘ad any.”

“You are a complete idiot!”

“There are wounds of the flesh and wounds of the heart. They can all be healed, but you can’t heal stupid.”

The petty word slinging started to make the three adjudicators laugh at the absurdity.

“You see,” said Pierre. “Even they think that’s funny.”

“You poor ignorant fool, Pierre. They are not laughing with you; they are laughing at you.”

“Nincompoop.”

“Garlic sucker.”

“Brainless.”

“Napolean doppelganger.”

Running out of insults, the two men began pulling rude faces that included making their noses look like pig snouts, flapping their ears, and blowing raspberries at each other.

Descending into absurd chaos, the judge decided to call a halt to the contest.

“Gentlemen! It is obvious that you have exhausted all viable insults. I declare this duel a no contest, a draw. Monsieur Chevalier, do you have satisfaction?”

Surprisingly smiling, Antoine nodded his head as he caught his breath. The whole exercise for him had been emancipating. It was like he had just finished a session of insult therapy, leaving him calm, relaxed, and free from anger.

“Oui,” he replied. “I have satisfaction.”

“Monsieur De La Grange,” the judge addressed him. “Satisfaction ‘as been achieved. You are no longer obligated to remain and may leave with your Second.”

“Merci, Monsieur Hubert,” Pierre acknowledged.

Attempting to make eye contact with Antoine, Pierre hoped to reconcile their differences; however, Antoine turned away as his Second helped him put on his coat. With a farewell glance, Pierre turned and dejectedly walked away – although, happy in the thought that no-one had died today and hoping that time would one day heal Antoine’s insult.

“Monsieur Chevalier,” the judge asked. “I am intrigued. You mentioned that he insulted your mother. I presume that was the catalyst for this challenge?”

“It was.”

“Forgive my intrusive curiosity, but what was the nature of the insult?”

“We were drinking heavily in a brothel in Montparnasse, swapping jokes and jibes, when he said that my mother was a Hedge Hugger.”

“A Hedge Hugger? Qu'est-ce que c'est?”

“It is a prostitute that practices her trade in the countryside.”

“Mon Dieu!” The judge exclaimed. “That is so offensive.”

“It was,” Antoine agreed. “I mean, everyone knows Mother would never leave the city… À bientôt, Monsieur Hubert.”

Hurrying away, Antoine missed witnessing the judge bewilderedly scratching his head.

“Those two deserve each other,” he mumbled. “Complete idiots – the pair of them.”

Pierre had managed to gracefully leave the scene and was about to step into his awaiting carriage when he felt a tap on his shoulder. Turning to see who it was, he felt an exhilaration energise his tired mind. Standing before him was none other than Antoine - a friendly smile adorning his face.

“Pierre, mon ami,” he said. “Is there room in there for me?”

Excited, Pierre gave his friend the tightest of hugs – his head resting on the taller man’s chest, before ushering him into the horse-drawn carriage.

“Perhaps on the way to Madame Geroux’s parlour, you can teach me some new insults.”

“With pleasure, mon ami,” Pierre beamed. “And I promise to leave your mother out of it.”

“That is inconsequential, Pierre. She deserves all she gets.”

“So, what was all that about, then?”

“I was drunk, you little half-pint.”

“Antoine, you truly are an idiot!”

“I know!”

“Driver, Maison de Madame Geroux, si vous plait!”

“Spoken with such sophistication, Pierre. So, in command, and not one insult attached to that request.”

“Antoine, I thought by now, you would have realised.”

“Realised what, mon ami?”

“…I save all my insults for my friends…”