Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1894-12-15

ftlSnt at the start 1
want to ask John l..
W Sullivan and every
ether true American who chances to read
this story to excuse the French accent
with which 1 am bound to write through
out. 1t is absolutely unavoidable, as any
body must admit who will follow me
through the narrowing details of the latest
society sensation-"Blood in Boudoirs." or
how the women in the smart set OF WASH
ington are learning to fence.
You see, in the first place, the professeur
d'armes is a r'rreal Frenchman, late pro-
fesseur d'armes of the National Military
School at Joinyille near Paris pronounced
Paree), and he speaks English with even
more difficulty than our American girls
who are educated in Paris. Also, he is the
protege of the French embassy, which fact,
of course, enlists as his patrons the ultra
foreign element of Washington women, who
adore anything French, from a poodle to
a count, and never neglect an opportunity
to converse with either exclusively in its
native tongue
Thus, / have been brought by fencing
under such influence. until for the time be-
ing l am embarrassed in speaking En-
glish myself.
Indeed, i may say honestly, 1 am en-
barrassed in speaking at all, when 1 con-
template the unutterable glory Of fencing
in high life.
The Diplomats Fence.
For curtain raiser, here is the thrilling
spectacle of two foreign ministers, repre-
sentatives of two of those potentially py-
rotechnical powers of South America, that
today are republics and this time tomor-
row are revolutions-here are these great
and gittering men zen garde."
Now watch their royal garters and crown
jewels fash as they execute the chain
lightning movements OF lie salut.
Ha! Sheath! See their eyes snap as their
swords click and clash. Brblood!
Splendid, isn't 1t? But on with the la
dies.
The scene shifts. The stage setting is
superb. Great wrought iron gates guard
the entrance to the palatial abode where
twice a week, Mrs. Allister McWard as
sembleS her dueling devoteeS.
Within the iron gates swing massive oak
doors that-"open sesame"-admit the vul-
gar gaze to penetrate spacious hall, from
which rises grand stairway to sublimer
heights of still greater privacy OF Mrs.
Allister McWard at home.
To the left is a library where a CRATE
fire burns, and such a general air of Eng
lish comfort prevails that involuntarily the
beholder's heart begins to sing God Save
the Queen"
But this outburst of British glee Is mo-
mentary, and only serves to indicate the
cosmopolitan character of our Washing
ton experience. For directly the fencing
master enters, the band plays the Mar
selles," and one has all the sensations of
a Cook tour through France.
The professeur d'armes, nice little man,
is clad from head to foot in white duck,
and sits gingerly on the edge of a luXu-
rious chair. He is trim a black-and-
tan, and of about the same coloring. But
from the slick swarthiness of his face,
with it's smoothly combed, heavy black
hair and close-cropped, pointed beard, his
eyes regard one with the appealing inno-
cence of skye terrier. 1t seems not only
rude but ridiculous, to ask him IL he ever
fought a duel However, put the ques-
ton.
The Professors Story.
Presto, change! There's burning sulphur
in the air and blood on the face Of the
moon.
"A duely Oh, oui. See that? He run
me through there and there''-showing a
couple OF scars on his hand-"and L run
MIN through here and here'-pointing to a
spot below his fifth rib, front and back.
mo, 1 not Kill him. But he get six
months to the hospital
1T was in the army He say, Ah,
Francois Darrinlat, you think you fence.
Poun! You think you fence!
"Then l tell the capitaine.
'Ah. it is so. Is it? Very well. then.
But everything en- rogle.'
80 we meet in the sale d'armes: We
have our seconds. They are very brave
men. When the blood runs they cry, En-
core. 1t is not their blood, see? The sur
geon is waiting with bandages.
Halt A blood!
No, that is nothing; that is not
a blood
:" Ell bien; that's nothing I say to my
SELF Francois Darrinlat, he think he fence
not for blood or two or three blood. 1t
is mort
Then Louis he run me through the
hand. N'importe. 1 have not fence since
| was ten year old for nothing C'fPk-
p's's'st 1 have run him through the
body"
Then his veins swelling with the fire of
these memories, the little professeur d.
armes forgets English as completely as
debutante with diplomat within hearing
and goes on in French to tell me, with fine
scorn for our United States notions of JUS
tice that though the arme blanche has lost
it's utility in war in France, thank God! 1t
still serves in affairs of honor.
Frenchmen,- he says, have not acquired
the uncommon sense of Americans whereby
an affront can be estimated in dollars and
cents and courts of law must be sought to
appraise and advertise ones indignity.
In Fencing Costume.
In the French army Francois tells me.
q STOWl DelWeeh 10 " Dt
reported by non-commssioned officers to
the superior officer, who promptly orders
duel, and though Paul and Henri may
have kissed and made up by the time the
order to fight Is delivered, no matter There
must be a duel as measure of discipline.
Between officers, in the event of quar-
REL a duel is practically ordered by the
force of public opinion, which demands
blood for bruises where ones honor is con-
cerned. The chief of police informally
grants his permission, and civil as well as
military authority encouraging the noble
exercise of dueling, ii follows naturally
that every town in France has its sale
d'armes, where rightminded French youth
study the art of fencing as conscientiously
as they do their catechism.
"Funny-dueling, you know" / eXclaim.
Francois shrugs his shoulders, throws up
his hands, elevateS his eyebrows, disclaim-
ing responsibility for the elemental con-
stitution of things, and answers, May be;
cocoa with rich chocolate flavor,
H..