28th June, morning; A Trim Reckoning

"A duel?" The expression on Leveque's face was unreadable, as if the terrible word refused to sink in, and instead hung in the air between them. "He challenged you to a duel?" He was waiting for his friend to contradict him, to laugh, to say it was a joke. But there was nothing. Qui tacet consentire videtur.

"He didn't give you a chance to retract your statement?"

Jarreau didn't answer. He didn't need to. There was confession enough in his looks.

"You refused?" Leveque demanded in disbelief.

"I meant what I said. I won't unsay it simply because it's inconvenient."

"For God's sake, Jarreau, it's an apology. A handful of words. It's nothing."

"They're my words. And I might prostitute them for my superiors, but I'll be damned to hell before I do it for an equal."

"Can you hear yourself? This isn't about words, or integrity or honor, it's about your cursed pride."

Jarreau was silent, taken aback by the accusation, not because of what Leveque had said, but because he had never, in the years he had known him, seen his friend truly angry. Annoyed, upset, frustrated, indignant -- more often than not at himself -- but never angry. Never until now.

"You rail against the arrogance of other officers, but you're no better. You're full of the same self-obsessed, egotistical bullshit--"

"Well it's easy for you, isn't it?" Jarreau fired back, "You're one of them!"

"One of them? One of whom? Do you even know what you're talking about?"

"The--"

"No! You--

"René--"

"--paranoid, arrogant, hypocritical, condescending--"

"I didn't--"

"--inconsiderate, bitter, vituperative, disaffiliated--"

"René--"

"--bastard! That you feel you have so few enemies that you must create more?"

"It wasn't--"

"Entire countries full of them aren't enough?"

"It wasn't my fault!" Jarreau finally blurted out.

Leveque stopped, drawing in a breath and letting it out slowly, deliberately, feeling the unfamiliar, hot anger drain from him as he did so. He felt sick.

"Did you offend him?" he asked, lowering his voice to a normal register.

"We argued."

"So you admit it?"

"I called him a pompous ass," Jarreau protested, "I didn't think he was going to turn it into a matter of honor."

"What you thought or didn't think is irrelevant. You offended him. You must apologize. For God's sake!" he exclaimed at seeing the obstinate set to Jarreau's jaw. "It might still be possible. If I act as your second--

"René--I think we're past that point."

"What do you mean?" Leveque's face sharpened suddenly, "What did you do?"

For a moment Jarreau said nothing, returning Leveque's gaze look for look. Typically he won such matches of will, but not that day. "I struck his second," he admitted, lowering his eyes.

"You what?"

"He has challenged me to a second duel."

"Why?"

For a moment Jarreau considered telling him, but the entire mess sounded so trivial when put into words that he was ashamed to try; and yet the memory of the other officer's tone, the arch expressions, the smug smiles still filled him with the same helpless rage. But one could not put a tone of voice into words, or the quirk of a mouth. At least Jarreau could not. So he said nothing.

"Why did you strike him?"

"You wouldn't understand." Sweet Christ, he sounded like a child.

Leveque actually looked hurt. "Why?"

And because it was easier to blame someone else than to explain himself, he said, "Because you're one of them."

"Oh, we're back to that, are we?"

"No, I mean -- you're clever..."

"What?"

"You're clever, you've had schooling, you talk like they talk, you can... "imply" things, you're a gentleman, a proper officer."

Now it was Leveque's turn to be taken aback. "Sebastien--"

"And they look at you and... you're an equal. They accept you. You're one of them. And then they look at me -- Christ. These petits soldats -- they worship their Little Corporal, their egalité, and then they turn 'round and look at me like I'm some worm that ought to be ground back into the mud where it belongs. So I lost my temper, alright? And I hit him."