There comes a moment to every man, who faces an imminent danger, when
the mental vision expands and he sees beyond. By this transient gift of
prescience he knows what the end will be, whether he is to live or die.
As Maurice looked into the merciless eyes of his enemy, a dim knowledge
came to him that this was to be an event and not a catastrophe, a
fragment of a picture yet to be fully drawn. His confidence and courage
returned. He thanked God, however, that the light above equalized their
positions, and that the shadows were behind them.
The swords came together with a click light but ominous. Immediately
Beauvais stepped back, suddenly threw forward his body, and delivered
three rapid thrusts. Maurice met them firmly, giving none.
“Ah!” cried Beauvais; “that is good. You know a little. There will be
sport, besides.”
Maurice shut his lips the tighter, and worked purely on the defensive.
His fencing master had taught him two things, silence and watchfulness.
While Beauvais made use of his forearm, Maurice as yet depended solely
on his wrist. Once they came together, guard to guard, neither daring
to break away until by mutual agreement, spoken only by the eyes, both
leaped backward out of reach. There was no sound save the quick light
stamp of feet and the angry murmur of steel scraping against steel.
Sometimes they moved circlewise, with free blades, waiting and watching.
Up to now Beauvais's play had been by the book, so to speak, and he
began to see that his opponent was well read.
“Which side is the pretty rose?” seeking to distract Maurice. “Tell me,
and I will pin it to you.”
Not a muscle moved in Maurice's face.
“It is too, bad,” went on Beauvais, “that her Highness finds a lover
only to lose him. You fool! I read your eyes when you picked up that
rose. Princesses are not for such as you. I will find her a lover, it
will be neither you nor Prince Frederick--ah! you caught that nicely.
But you depend too much on the wrist. Presently it will tire; and
then--pouf!”
Now and then a a flame, darting from the grate, sparkled on the polished
steel, and from the steel it shot into the watchful eyes. A quarter
of an hour passed; still Maurice remained on the defensive. At first
Beauvais misunderstood the reason, and thought Maurice did not dare run
the risk of passing from defensive to offensive. But by and by the froth
of impatience crept into his veins. He could not penetrate above or
below that defense. The man before him was of marble, with a wrist of
iron; he neither smiled nor spoke, there was no sign of life at all,
except in the agile legs, the wrist, and eyes. The Colonel decided to
change his tactics.
“When I have killed you,” he said, “I shall search your pockets, for
I know that you lie when you say that you have not those certificates.
Madame was a fool to send you. No man lives who may be trusted. And what
is your game? Save the Osians? Small good it will do you. Her Highness
will wed Prince Frederick--mayhap--and all you will get is cold thanks.
And in such an event, have you reckoned on Madame the duchess? War! And
who will win? Madame; for she has not only her own army, but mine. Come,
come! Speak, for when you leave this room your voice will be silent.
Make use of the gift, since it is about to leave you.”
The reply was a sudden straightening of the arm. The blade slipped in
between the Colonel's forearm and body, and was out again before the
soldier fully comprehended what had happened. Maurice permitted a cold
smile to soften the rigidity of his face. Beauvais saw the smile, and
read it. The thrust had been rendered harmless intentionally. An inch
nearer, and he had been a dead man. To accomplish such a delicate piece
of sword play required nothing short of mastery. Beauvais experienced a
disagreeable chill, which was not unmixed with chagrin. The boy had held
his life in his hand, and had spared it. He set his teeth, and let loose
with a fury before which nothing could stand; and Maurice was forced
back step by step until he was almost up with the wall.
“You damned fool!” the Colonel snarled, “you'll never get that chance
again.”
For the next few minutes it took all the splendid defense Maurice
possessed to keep the spark in his body. The Colonel's sword was no
longer a sword, it was a flame; which circled, darted, hissed and
writhed. Twice Maurice felt the bite of it, once in the arm and again in
the thigh. These were not deep, but they told him that the end was but
a short way off. He had no match for this brilliant assault. Something
must be done, and that at once. He did not desire the Colonel's death,
and the possibility of accomplishing this was now extremely doubtful.
But he wanted to live. Life was just beginning--the rough road had
been left behind. He was choosing between his life and the Colonel's.
Beauvais, after the fashion of the old masters, was playing for the
throat. This upward thrusting, when continuous, is difficult to meet,
and Maurice saw that sooner or later the blade would reach home. If not
sudden death, it meant speechlessness, and death as a finality. Then the
voice of his guardian angel spoke.
“I do not wish your life,” he said, breaking the silence, “but at the
same time I wish to live--ah!” Maurice leaped back just in time. As it
was, the point of his enemy's blade scratched his chin.
They broke and circled. The Colonel feinted. Maurice, with his elbow
against his side and his forearm extended, waited. Again the Colonel
lunged for the throat. This time, instead of meeting it in tierce,
Maurice threw his whole force forward in such a manner as to bring
the steel guard of his rapier full on the Colonel's point. There was a
ringing sound of snapping steel, and the Colonel stood with nothing but
a stump in his grasp.
“There you are,” said Maurice, a heat-flash passing over him. Had he
swerved a hair's breadth from the line, time would have tacked finis to
the tale. “Now, I am perfectly willing to talk,” putting his point to
the Colonel's breast. “It would inconvenience me to kill you, but do not
count too much on that.”
“Damn you!” cried the Colonel, giving way, his face yellow with rage,
chagrin and fear. “Kill me, for I swear to God that one or the other of
us must die! Damn you and your meddling nose!”
“Damn away, chevalier d'industrie; damn away. But live, live, live! That
will be the keenest punishment. Live! O, my brave killer of boys,
you thought to play with me as a cat with a mouse, eh? Eh, Captain
Urquijo-Beauvais-and-What-is-your-name?” He pressed the point here,
there, everywhere. “You were too confident. Pardon me if I appear to
brag, but I have taken lessons of the best fencing masters in Europe,
and three times, while you devoted your talents to monologues, I could
have pinned you like one of those butterflies on the wall there. Have
you ever heard of the sword of Damocles? Well, well; it hangs over many
a head to-day. I will be yours. I give you forty-eight hours to arrange
your personal affairs. If after that time you are still in this part
of the country, I shall inform the proper authorities in Vienna. The
republic has representation there. Of a noble Austrian house, on the eve
of recall? I think not.”
Beauvais made a desperate attempt to clutch the blade in his hands.
“No, no!” laughed Maurice, making rapid prods which caused Beauvais to
wince. “Now, back; farther, farther. I do not like the idea of having my
back to the door.”
Beauvais suddenly wheeled and dashed for the mantel. But as he
endeavored to lay hand on the revolver Maurice brought down the blade on
the Colonel's knuckles, leaving a livid welt. Maurice took possession
of the weapon, while a grimace of agony shot over the Colonel's face.
Seeing that the chambers were loaded, Maurice threw down the sword.
“Well, well!” he said, cocking the weapon. “And I saw it when I entered
the room. It would have saved a good deal of trouble.” Beauvais grew
white. “O,” Maurice continued, “I am not going to shoot you. I wish
merely to call your valet.” He aimed at the grate and pressed the
trigger, and the report, vibrating within the four walls, was deafening.
A moment passed, and the valet, with bulging eyes and blanched face,
peered in. Seeing how matters stood, he made as though to retreat.
Maurice leveled the smoking revolver. “Come in, Francois; your master
will have need of you.”
Francois complied, vertigo in his limbs. “My God!” he cried, wringing
his hands.
“Your master tried to murder me,” said Maurice. Francois had heard
voices like this before, and it conveyed to him that a fine quality of
anger lay close to the surface. “Take down yonder window curtain cord.”
Francois did so. “Now bind your master's hands with it.”
“Francois,” cried the Colonel, “if you so much as lay a finger on me,
I'll kill you.”
“Francois, I will kill you if you don't,” said Maurice.
“My God!” wailed the valet at loss which to obey when to obey either
meant death. His teeth chattered.
“You may have all the time you want, Francois, to wring your hands when
I am gone. Come; to work. Colonel, submit. I'm in a hurry and have no
time to spare. While I do not desire to kill you, self-preservation will
force me to put a bullet into your hide, which will make you an inmate
of the city hospital. Bind his hands behind his back, and no more
nonsense.”
“Monsieur,” appealingly to Beauvais, “my God, I am forced. He will kill
me!”
“So will I,” grimly; “by God, I will!” Beauvais had a plan. If he could
keep Maurice long enough, help might arrive. And he had an excellent
story to tell. Still Francois doddered. With his eye on the Colonel and
the revolver sighted, Maurice picked up the sword. He gave Francois a
vigorous prod. Francois needed no further inducement. He started forward
with alacrity. In the wink of an eye he threw the cord around Beauvais's
arms and pinned them to his sides. Beauvais swore, but the valet was
strong in his fright. He struggled and wound and knotted and tied,
murmuring his pitiful “Mon Dieu!” the while, till the Colonel was the
central figure of a Gordian knot.
“That will do,” said Maurice. “Now, Francois, good and faithful servant,
take your master over to the lounge, and sit down beside him until I get
into my clothes. Yes; that's it.” He shoved his collar and tie into
a pocket, slipped on his vest and coat, put on his hat and slung his
topcoat over his arm. During these maneuvers the revolver remained
conspicuously in sight. “Now, Francois, lead the way to the street door.
By the time you return to your illustrious master, who is the prince or
duke of something or other, pursuit will be out of the question. Now, as
for you,” turning to Beauvais, “the forty-eight hours hold good. During
that time I shall go armed. Forty-eight hours from now I shall inform
the authorities at the nearest consulate. If they catch you, that's your
affair. Off we go, Francois.”
“By God!--” began Beauvais, struggling to his feet.
“Come so far as this door,” warned Maurice, “and, bound or not, I'll
knock you down. Hang you! Do you think my temper will improve in your
immediate vicinity? Do you think for a moment that I do not lust for
your blood as heartily as you lust for mine? Go to the devil your own
way; you'll go fast enough!” He caught Francois by the shoulders and
pushed him into the hall, followed, and closed the door. Francois had
been graduated from the stables, therefore his courage never rose to
sublime heights. All the way down the stairs he lamented; and each time
he turned his head and saw the glitter of the revolver barrel he choked
with terror.
“If you do not kill me, Monsieur, he will; he will, I know he will!
My God, how did it happen? He will kill me!” and the voice sank into a
muffled sob.
Despite the gravity of the situation, Maurice could not repress his
laughter. “He will not harm you; he threatened you merely to delay me.
Open the door.” He stepped out into the refreshing air. “By the way,
tell your master not to go to the trouble of having me arrested, for the
first thing in the morning I shall place a sealed packet in the hands
of the British minister, to be opened if I do not call for it within
twenty-four hours. And say to your master that I shall keep the rose.”
“Mon Dieu! A woman! I might have known!” ejaculated Francois, as the
door banged in his face.
Maurice, on reaching the pavement, took to his legs, for he saw three
men rapidly approaching. Perhaps they had heard the pistol shot. He
concluded not to wait to learn. He continued his rush till he gained his
room. It was two o'clock. He had been in the Colonel's room nearly three
hours. It seemed only so many minutes. He hunted for his brandy, found
it and swallowed several mouthfuls. Then he dropped into a chair from
sheer exhaustion. Reaction laid hold of him. His hands shook, his legs
trembled, and perspiration rolled down his cheek.
“By George!” This exclamation stood alone, but it was an Odyssey. He
remained stupefied, staring at his shoes, over which his stockings had
fallen. His shirt buttons were gone, and the bosom was guiltless of its
former immaculateness. After a time he became conscious of a burning
pain in the elbow of his right arm. He glanced down at his hand, to find
it covered with drying blood. He jumped up and cast about his clothes.
One leg of his trousers was soaked, and the dull ache in his thigh
told the cause. He salved the wounds and bound them in strips of
handkerchiefs, which he held in place by using some of the cast-off
cravats.
“That was about as close to death as a man can get and pull out. I
feel as if I had swallowed that cursed blade of his. I am an ass, sure
enough. I've always a bad cold when there's a rat about; can't smell
him. And the rascal remembered me! Will he stay in spite of my threat?
I'll hang on here till to-morrow. If he stays--I won't. He has the
devil's own of a sword. Hang it, my nerves are all gone to smash.”
Soon some gentler thought took hold, and he smiled tenderly. He brought
forth the rose, turned it this way and that, studied it, stroked it,
held it to his lips as a lover holds the hand of the woman he loves. Her
rose; somehow his heart told him that she had laughed because Beauvais
had stooped in vain.
“Ah, Maurice,” he said, “you are growing over fond. But why not? Who
will know? To have loved is something.”
He crept into bed; but sleep refused him its offices, and he tossed
about in troubled dreams. He fought all kinds of duels with all sorts
of weapons. He was killed a half dozen times, but the archbishop
always gave him something which rekindled the vital spark. A thousand
Beauvaises raged at him. A thousand princesses were ever in the
background, waiting to be saved. He swore to kill these Beauvaises, and
after many fruitless endeavors, he succeeded in smothering them in their
gray pelisses. Then he woke, as dreamers always wake when they pass some
great dream-crisis, and found himself in a deadly struggle with a pillow
and a bed-post. He laughed and sprang out of bed.
“It's no use, I can't sleep. I am an old woman.”
So he lit his pipe and sat dreaming with his eyes open, smoking and
smoking, until the sickly pallor of dawn appeared in the sky, and he
knew that day had come.