Honour and the spirit of fair play alike cried out against such a match.
The encounter was very short, of course.

In youth, Philippe had received the tutoring in sword-play that was given to every boy born into his station of life.

And so he knew at least the rudiments of what was now expected of him.

But what could rudiments avail him here?
Three disengages completed the exchanges, and then without any haste the Marquis slid his right foot along the moist turf, his long, graceful body extending itself in a lunge that went under M.de Vilmorin's clumsy guard, and with the utmost deliberation he drove his blade through the young man's vitals.
Andre-Louis sprang forward just in time to catch his friend's body under the armpits as it sank.

Then, his own legs bending beneath the weight of it, he went down with his burden until he was kneeling on the damp turf.
Philippe's limp head lay against Andre-Louis' left shoulder; Philippe's relaxed arms trailed at his sides; the blood welled and bubbled from the ghastly wound to saturate the poor lad's garments.
With white face and twitching lips, Andre-Louis looked up at M.de La Tour d'Azyr, who stood surveying his work with a countenance of grave but remorseless interest.
"You have killed him!" cried Andre-Louis.
"Of course." The Marquis ran a lace handkerchief along his blade to wipe it.