Only a Flesh Wound: The World's Longest Duel

General Fournier in 1812, by Antoine-Jean Gros

Enacting codified rules for attempted murder is a strange business, so it is no wonder that dueling has had a lot of odd moments in its long history. However, I doubt this lethal pastime had a stranger episode than one that played out in the Napoleonic Era. The entire affair reads like a “Monty Python” sketch, but the two soldiers at the heart of the story took the matter very, very seriously indeed.

Most of the blame for the whole mess can be laid at the feet of French officer François Louis Fournier-Sarlovèze, dubbed, not without reason, as “the worst subject of the Grande Armée.” He was a very, very good duelist, and, unfortunately, the pastime became a habit with him, or perhaps even a drug. Fournier would eagerly duel for the flimsiest of reasons. He was a hothead who handed out challenges the way normal people pass around their business cards.

In Strasbourg in 1794, Fournier got himself into serious trouble when he fought and killed a young man named Blum. This duel--which Fournier had instigated seemingly on a whim--turned public opinion firmly against him. Everyone had had enough of this pest. On the same evening as Blum’s funeral, Fournier’s superior, General Moreau, gave a public ball. He ordered his aide-de-camp, Pierre Dupont de l'Étang, to inform Fournier that he was banned from attending.

General Dupont

Fournier responded to this insult in just the way you’d think. As even he realized challenging Moreau to a duel was impossible, he took his wrath out on the General’s messenger, vowing to “pay him handsomely for the commission of doorkeeper which he had accepted.”

During the inevitable duel, Fournier got a disagreeable surprise: a sword-thrust through his body. As he lay in agony on the grass, he gasped. “That’s the first touch.”

“Then you want another bout do you?” Dupont replied.

“I certainly do, my dear fellow. And before long, I hope.”

Within a few weeks, Fournier had recovered from his wound, and the men had their rematch. This time, it was Dupont who was injured. “That’s the second,” he insisted as he fell. “Next time we shall have the finish.”

Although there was indeed a “next time,” it was far, far from the “finish.” They both came out slightly wounded, so the duel was termed a draw.  It turned out that as swordsmen, the officers were equally matched, ensuring the unlikelihood of a clear winner. Fournier suggested they switch to pistols, but as Dupont was aware that his rival was a first-class shot (it was said that if his fellow officers rode past Fournier while they were smoking, he entertained himself by shooting their pipes,) he wisely refused. The officers decided that there was nothing for it but to keep dueling until one of them cried uncle. These two maniacs even drew up a formal contract, like businessmen sealing a property deal:

1. Every time that Dupont and Fournier shall be a hundred miles from each other, they will approach from a distance to meet sword in hand.
2. Should one of the contracting parties be prevented by service duties, he who is free must travel the entire distance, so as to reconcile the obligations of service with the demands of the present treaty.
3. No excuse whatever, excepting those resulting from military obligations, will be admitted.
4. The present being a bona fide treaty, no alteration can be made to the conditions agreed upon by the contracting parties.

Dupont and Fournier may have been barking mad, but they were gentlemen, so they both followed this singular contract to the letter. Before long, their duels became a regular part of their lives, like dining out or attending the theater. Their private battle caused an odd bond to form between them, even a love of a kind. When they were separated, both officers longed for their next meeting, like lovers forced against their will to spend time apart. Each duel was preceded by an affectionate handshake. Their letters to each other arranging their next duels read like old friends planning happy reunions. Every now and then, one of them would be promoted. This inequality of rank between them would force a temporary halt to their battles, something that chafed them both until the other was promoted as well, and their fun and games could continue. As Fournier once wrote, “My dear Dupont, I hear that the Emperor, doing justice to your merit, has just promoted you to the rank of Brigadier-General. Accept my sincere congratulations on a promotion which your ability and courage rendered inevitable, a mere matter of course. I have two reasons to be delighted at this appointment. First, the satisfaction afforded by your advancement; and secondly, the facility now vouchsafed to us to have a thrust at each other at the first opportunity.”

This curious--I’m tempted to say “love affair”--went on for nineteen years and at least thirty duels. It would certainly have gone on until one of the pair finally died, if Dupont had not announced an end to the contest. One day in Paris, he called on Fournier with the news that he was getting married, and matrimony and sword fights just did not mix. It was time, he said, to have one final, definitive duel. He proposed that they meet at a wood outside Neuilly. They would enter this wood, each with a pair of horse-pistols. They would stay out of each other’s sight, then “track each other as best we can, and fire at our convenience.” Fournier agreed, warning Dupont not to proceed too far with his wedding arrangements, as he would surely die a bachelor.

On the appointed day, the pair slunk around the wood, each trying to catch sight of the other. Dupont, knowing he was no match for Fournier as a gunman, resorted to trickery. When he knew his rival was hiding behind a tree in front of him, Dupont, from the cover of his own tree, let the flap of his long coat come into view. A bullet instantly went through it. A moment later, he cocked his pistol with one hand, and held out his hat with the other. Another bullet sent the hat flying into the bushes.

Dupont knew that, at long last, he had won. With both his pistols cocked, he marched up to Fournier. Dupont told his old rival that while Fournier’s life was at his disposal, he would not take it...yet. However, he retained his “rights” over it. He warned Fournier that if their paths ever crossed again, he would consider himself fully entitled to send two bullets into Fournier’s brain.

Thus ended the longest and most pointless duel in recorded history. The two men went on with their lives. As for Fournier, after a turbulent career (which included picking a fight with Napoleon, which does not surprise me in the least,) he rose to the rank of inspector-general of the cavalry under Louis XVIII. He died in 1827, aged 53. Dupont retired in 1832, where he wrote poems and military treatises. He also worked on his memoirs, which unfortunately were unfinished at the time of his death in 1840.

I like to think that the minute Dupont reached the afterlife, he and Fournier started up all over again.

[Note: Joseph Conrad’s story “The Duel”--which was the basis for the acclaimed movie “The Duellists”--was inspired by Dupont and Fournier’s real-life drama. Many thanks to John Bellen for alerting me to Robert Baldick’s “The Duel: a history of Duelling,” which gives a detailed account about this remarkable little tale.]