Neither could send nor receive a
challenge without rendering himself amenable to a court-martial. It
was not to be thought of. Lieutenant Feraud, who for many days now had
experienced no real desire to meet Lieutenant D'Hubert arms in hand,
chafed at the systematic injustice of fate. "Does he think he will
escape me in that way?" he thought indignantly. He saw in it an
intrigue, a conspiracy, a cowardly manoeuvre. That colonel knew what he
was doing. He had hastened to recommend his pet for promotion. It was
outrageous that a man should be able to avoid the consequences of his
acts in such a dark and tortuous manner.
Of a happy-go-lucky disposition, of a temperament more pugnacious than
military, Lieutenant Feraud had been content to give and receive blows
for sheer love of armed strife and without much thought of advancement.
But after this disgusting experience an urgent desire of promotion
sprang up in his breast. This fighter by vocation resolved in his mind
to seize showy occasions and to court the favourable opinion of his
chiefs like a mere worldling. He knew he was as brave as any one
and never doubted his personal charm. It would be easy, he thought.
Nevertheless, neither the bravery nor the charm seemed to work very
swiftly. Lieutenant Feraud's engaging, careless truculence of a "_beau
sabreur_" underwent a change. He began to make bitter allusions to
"clever fellows who stick at nothing to get on." The army was full of
them, he would say, you had only to look round.
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