is quite indifferent to me; I even dislike him, because of the great
extremes to which certain women go in their admiration of his heroism.
That is always annoying to those who are not heroes. I think how
insignificant he must have been only four years ago. If I had met him
then, I would have found him, I dare say, a book-keeper in some hotel,
or a clerk in my haberdasher's in Paris. Imagine what a friend! But the
war has swept over us, turning everything upside down, making some
emerge, and burying others in the deepest depths, without any certainty
of rising again. This boy happens to be somebody now. He is of more
consequence than you or I. He has been of some use; and for me he is
sacred, in spite of the fact that he inspires envy in me rather than
admiration."
The Prince finally made a gesture of protest. Then he shrugged his
shoulders disdainfully, and sank once more into motionless silence. That
little adventurer worth more than he, because they had punctured his
skin in a fight or two!
"We would never come to an understanding, even if we talked all the
afternoon," continued Castro. "I have changed considerably, and you are
the same man you have always been. I believe that yesterday I came to my
'road to Damascus.' I feel to-day that I am a different man."
And, through a certain need of expressing his great inner turmoil, he
went on talking, without paying any attention to whether or not the
Prince was listening to him.
He had come to his "road of Damascus" near the Monte Carlo railway
station, beside the tracks. He was with two ladies, in one of whom he
was greatly interested. (Michael thought once more of Dona Clorinda.) A
trainload of soldiers was returning from Italy; a somber train, without
flags and without any branches of trees adorning the doors and windows.
They were Frenchmen. They had been sent to Italy as reenforcements,
after the disaster of Caporetto, and now they were being hurriedly
recalled, to defend their own soil, which was again in danger.
"No songs and no wild merriment; they were all silent, tired and dirty,
with an epic dirtiness. The cars were more like wild beasts' cages, with
their pungent odors of the animal ring. The soldiers were young men but
they looked old, with their bristling beards, spotted uniforms, and
faces parched by the sun, hardened by the cold, and cracked and chapped
by the wind. The heat had caused them to remove their blouses, and they
were in flannel shirts of an undefinable color, drenched with the sweat
of so many fatigues and so many emotions.
"One could guess that they were the battalion always predestined to
arrive in time to sustain the hardest shocks; the one that punctually
appeared in the places of greatest danger, with the heroic resignation
of the strong, who allow themselves to be exploited, and who not only do
their own work, but help out all the others who work less. Where had
these men not fought? On their own soil, and on that of the Allies, and
perhaps in the Orient, and now, they were returning again to the land of
their first combats. Just when they were thinking they had accomplished
everything, they had discovered they had as yet done nothing. In the
weaving and unweaving of the web of war, it was necessary to begin all
over again. Four years before, they imagined they had triumphed
decisively on the banks of the Marne, and now they were returning once
more to the Marne. Every winter, sunk in the mud, buried in the
trenches, under the rain, they said to one another: 'This will be the
last.' And another winter came, and another, and still another on the
heels of the last, without any noticeable change. This was the reason
for their fatalistic and resigned demeanor, the look of men who adapt
themselves to everything and finally come to believe that their misery
will be eternal, that human times of peace will never return."
Castro stopped talking a moment and paid no attention to the face of his
friend, which seemed to be asking what all that story had to do with
him. "We were standing on the edge of an embankment, leaning on the
barriers, and our heads were on a level with the men huddled in the
carriages. The long train, the head of which had already reached the
station, was slowly advancing. The two ladies were waving their
handkerchiefs, smiling at the soldiers, and calling words of greeting to
them. Many of the latter remained unmoved, looking at them with eyes of
sleepy wild beasts. They had been greeted with ovations for four years.
They knew realities, the terrible realities that lie beyond ovations!
Others, young or more ardent, aroused themselves at the sight of these
two elegant women. Electrified by their smiles, they stood erect,
passing a hand over their wrinkled flannels, and threw kisses, trying to
recover their gentleness of the days when they were not soldiers.
Suddenly, one of those who were passing, forgot the women and noticed
me, also waving my hat to them, and shouting hurrah. He was a sort of
red-haired, bitter devil."
Castro could still see him, as though his head were peering through one
of the bar-room windows; perhaps he would be able to see, as long as he
lived, the whitish parchment of the man's face, drawn across his
prominent cheek-bones; his red beard hanging from his jaws, as though it
were a piece of make-up, and above all, his insolent, sarcastic eyes, a
muddy green color, like that of oysters. He was the soldier who
criticizes, grumbles, and talks against the officers, while carrying out
their orders. In civil life he must have been the disagreeable rebel
who never approves of anything. As his eyes met those of Castro, the
latter had a feeling of repulsion. He divined the man with whom one
always clashes in the street, in the cars, and in the theater. And
nevertheless, he would never forget his momentary meeting with that
soldier who was passing and was disappearing in the distance, with only
just enough time to say six words.
He gave the two women a scornful, ironic smile--then another at Castro,
who was still waving his hat, and pointed to the end of the carriage,
shouting to him:
"There's still room for one more!"
And that was all he said.
"He said enough, Michael. Since then I keep hearing his harsh voice: I
shall always hear it, in my happiest moments, if I remain here. And the
look in his eyes? I understood all the mute insults, the rapid
comparisons that he made between his misery and my strong, well-groomed
appearance. For him I was a coward gallivanting with women, when men are
with men, giving their lives for something of importance."
"Bah! You are a foreigner," interrupted the Prince, who seemed wearied
by his friend's words.
"I live here; and the land where I live cannot be foreign to me. This
war is for something more than questions of land; it concerns all men.
Look at the Americans, whom we all considered very practical and
incapable of idealism; they know that they are not going to gain
anything positive; and nevertheless they are entering the struggle with
all their might. Besides, there is the spirit of the women. Would you
imagine that the two that were with me laughed at the red-headed
fellow's insult, considering it very apropos? And don't tell me that
women are always attracted by the warrior, on every occasion. Perhaps by
the warrior in peace times, shiny and beplumed. But these fellows now
look so miserable! No; there is something very lofty in everything that
surrounds us, something that you and I have not been able to see,
because of our selfishness."
His listener once more shrugged his shoulders with a gesture of
indifference.
"And when I think of my meeting yesterday, as I constantly am doing, and
see the place that that damned redhead offered me jokingly, as though I
were a woman, and as though I would never have the courage to take it,
you propose that I arrange for a deadly combat with another of these men
who consider themselves, not without reason, superior to us! No; now you
know my answer: I won't accept."
He had left the arm of the chair and was standing, facing the Prince.
The latter made a gesture of weariness. He was bored by Atilio's words,
by that childlike story about the train, the red-haired soldier and his
insolent invitation. That might move Dona Clorinda, but nobody else; he
had more important things to think about just then. And since he refused
to do him the favor, he could leave him alone.
"Good-by, Michael!" said Castro, with the conviction that this farewell
was going to be something more than a momentary parting.
"Good-by," replied the Prince, without stirring.
When he had almost reached the door, Atilio turned back.
"I know what my refusal means, and what it is up to me to do. Good-by
again. Remember that if you were to ask me anything else...."
But the Prince interrupted his words with another gesture of
indifference, and Atilio went away, hiding his emotion.
Immediately Don Marcos entered the bar, as though he had been waiting
on the other side of the curtain for Castro to come out. His
"chamberlain" had never seemed to the Prince so active and intelligent.
"It is all arranged, Marquis."
As he had felt certain that Atilio would not allow himself to be
persuaded, he had gone in search of another second. He thought for a
moment of going to Monaco, to speak to Novoa. Then he remembered the
professor's relations with Valeria. Such a visit would be equivalent to
informing the Duchess of the entire affair. Besides, the scientist did
not know anything about such matters, and was a fellow countryman of
Martinez. It was quite enough that one Spaniard should figure in this
affair.
"I have my second," he continued. "It will be Lord Lewis."
In the Colonel's eyes, Lewis was more of a Lord than ever. He was
thankful for the promptness with which he had granted his request. The
Englishman was winning money that afternoon, and was in an excellent
humor. He even got up from his seat, leaving the gambling, to listen to
the Colonel. He wanted to take him over to the bar, affirming that with
a whiskey in front of a fellow he can talk better; and Toledo guessed
from his breath that he had already taken several drinks to celebrate
his good luck. Lewis was disposed to serve his friend Lubimoff. As far
as fights were concerned, he was acquainted only with boxing; but he had
absolute confidence in the Colonel's expert opinion and would support
anything he might say. Immediately afterwards he had returned to his
play.
Michael gave Toledo his instructions. It would be an encounter under
rigorous conditions, like those which he had witnessed in Russia. It
could be nothing else: he had received a blow. And he said this with a
sullen voice, quite convinced of the absolute reality of the insult.
As night fell, he left the Casino, avoiding his acquaintances who were
invading the bar, and obliging him to smile and keep up frivolous
conversation, while his thoughts were far away.
In all his moments of profound anger, when unable to put his feelings
into immediate and violent action, his nervous excitation was followed
by a certain lassitude which caused his muscles and nerves to relax.
It was with a real pleasure that he entered Villa Sirena, finding an
unwonted voluptuousness in all the details of its comforts. He spent the
time he was waiting for the Colonel in reading. At nine o'clock he was
obliged to eat alone. Then he returned to his book, but this time in his
bedroom, finally lying down, book in hand. He smiled with a smile that
was almost a grimace, as he thought that his nervous fatigue had caused
him to stretch out in the same posture as the dead.
He went on turning the pages without losing a single line, and
nevertheless he could not have told what he was reading. Suddenly, he
concentrated his attention in an effort to remember. Something had
happened; something was awaiting him. What was it? "Oh, yes!" And after
reconstructing in his memory what had taken place that afternoon, and
imagining what was to take place the following day, he returned to his
meaningless reading.
The pages melted away like snowflakes; he felt his hand grow lighter;
the book finally fell on the bed. Instinctively he sought the electric
button to darken the room, and before completely losing all perception
of the outer world, he could hear his own first regular breathing.
A light striking against his eyes made him sit up. He saw the Colonel
beside his bed. The deep silence of the night, which seemed even more
absolute when emphasized by the sound of the sea, was broken off by the
panting of a motor-car.
The Prince rubbed his eyes. What time was it?
"One o'clock," said Don Marcos.
Everything was arranged. The meeting was to take place on the following
day, at two o'clock in the afternoon. It could not be managed earlier!
There were still a great many things left to be done. The place selected
was Lewis' castle; an encounter in the principality of Monaco would be
impossible. All the houses there were close together, without a single
quiet spot where two men might face each other, pistol in hand.
Lubimoff almost jumped out of bed, so great was his surprise. The choice
of arms was his, as the injured person, and he had mentioned to his
representative the saber, the favorite weapon of his youthful duels.
Toledo, for the first time faced the furious look of his Prince without
a tremor.
"Marquis," he said with dignity. "It could not be anything else! You
must remember that this poor young man is a convalescent, almost an
invalid. I am astonished that he should have persuaded his seconds to
allow even pistols. His representatives did not want to accept anything.
They are among those who feel that this duel ought not to take place."
The Prince calmed himself. A sense of equity caused him to accept
Toledo's decision. That sick fellow was not an enemy worthy of his
saber; it was necessary to establish a certain equality between them,
and the pistol would do that, being the only weapon that lends itself to
surprises and whims of chance.
"At any event I shall kill him," thought Michael, remembering his skill
as a marksman.
"I must tell your Highness," the Colonel went on, "that all weapons are
the same to him. This young man and his two friends are well acquainted
with everything that concerns warfare, but they haven't the slightest
notion of duelling and the weapons that are used on such occasions."
Then he enumerated the conditions. The distance was to be fifteen
meters; each one was to fire a single shot, but each might aim and fire
while he, who was to direct the combat, was counting from one to three.
With a marksman like the Prince, such conditions would be serious.
Exactly! The Prince found them acceptable.
"Good-night," he said, burying himself in the bed, and pulling the
coverlet up to his eyes.
Once more sleep overwhelmed him, now that his curiosity was satisfied.
Toledo would have liked to do the same, but he was obliged to fulfill
the sacred duties of his exalted position, and he went from room to room
looking through every drawer and climbing on chairs to rummage around on
the top shelves of the closets. He was looking for a box of duelling
pistols, that had been given to him in Russia by one of the Generals who
was a friend of the dead Marquis. When he finally found it, he was
obliged to spend more than an hour in cleaning the luxurious weapons,
which had lost their silvery brilliancy in the oblivion of their long
confinement.
He felt tired, yet at the same time his feeling of importance warded off
sleep. Was he not the soul of the drama which was being prepared for the
following day, he alone? Without him, neither his Highness nor Martinez
could fight. Lord Lewis and the two soldiers who represented the
adversary were incapable of a single idea, and had to follow him as
though they were his pupils.
Consciousness of this superiority caused him to recall from
mid-afternoon to mid-night all his past negotiations and triumphs.
He had gone in quest of Martinez, with a certain hesitation. In spite of
his old beliefs, he felt Atilio's protests were quite reasonable.
Perhaps what he said was right, that this duel was a piece of
foolishness, madness even, on the part of the Prince. But his
traditional ideas revolted against such scruples.
"Honor is honor." And, hearing the Lieutenant accept reparation by arms,
with joy, and with a certain haste, as though he were afraid that Toledo
would repent and withdraw the proposal, the Colonel felt the
satisfaction of a person who, after long hesitation, becomes convinced
that he is in the right. Heroic youth, ready to maintain all points of
honor! Don Marcos found it natural that he should act thus. Martinez was
from the same land as himself!
For a moment his memory dwelt on the image of the Duchess. Perhaps she
was the involuntary cause of this clash, and the boy was animated by a
feeling of vanity. He was going to figure in a duel such as he had read
about in the story books of his youth; he was going to be a chief actor
in one of those dreams of high life that seemed to him to belong to
another world. But the Colonel immediately put aside such speculations,
which had been suggested by the frank rejoicing with which Martinez
accepted the challenge, as though it were an invitation to a party.
From that moment on Toledo began to be more and more bewildered. The
world had changed, changed completely, and he advanced from amazement to
amazement.
To favor his compatriot, he wanted to know the arms for which the latter
had a preference.
"I am acquainted with so many!" exclaimed Martinez.
In an attack he had wounded with the point of a saber a gigantic German
who was threatening him with his bayonet. The thrust had met something
hard that crunched, and spurted a shower of blood into his face. Then,
on growing calm, he saw that he had driven the weapon through his
adversary's mouth, breaking his spinal column. He was also acquainted
with the revolver, but was not a marksman. He was more expert with other
weapons: the hand grenade, which reminded him of youthful ball games;
the machine gun, which he had handled as a mere aid; explosive hurled
with a sling. He was even fairly skilled in artillery, but trench
artillery, in loading short range mortars, used in firing torpedoes and
asphyxiating projectiles into the neighboring trench!
He smiled scornfully when Don Marcos insisted on the fencing formalities
to be employed with the saber. He had his own style of fencing; to go
straight up to the enemy and strike first. But in hand to hand fighting
he preferred the knife. With a revolver he had never bothered about
aiming. He didn't fire until he found himself close to the enemy, and
was sure of his shot.
"And the duelling pistol?" asked the Colonel.
"I am not acquainted with it at all. I should like to see one: it must
be something curious."
Toledo's hesitating glance wandered over the officer's breast, as though
taking an inventory of his decorations, pausing at the stars that dotted
the striped ribbons of his War Cross. Each one of them symbolized a
great deed.
When the Lieutenant presented his seconds, the bewilderment of Don
Marcos was not relieved. They were two extremely young captains. Toledo
guessed they were twenty-five or twenty-six years of age. Their uniforms
fitting very tight about the waist, their kepis of the latest style,
their neatness and elegance pleased the Colonel, who immediately took
them to be professional soldiers. They must have come from the school of
Saint-Cyr; his professional eye could not be mistaken; they were of a
different stock from humble Martinez!
One of them had had his face burned on one side by German liquid fire:
the other's face was burrowed with a network of scarlet threads, which
were the remains of scars. They both limped; one of them, with an
enormous foot covered with wrappings and shod with a felt shoe, was
quite frankly leaning on a stick; while his companion, who had a stiff
leg, wore a trim tiny shoe, displaying a certain vanity also in a
slender rattan cane, which he really used for support.
Their first words were rather embarrassing for the Colonel and Lewis.
What was the meaning of this, a civilian daring to insult a soldier who
was recovering from his wounds? What was the idea in proposing a duel in
the midst of war? Any one who wanted to die himself or kill someone else
had only to go to the front, like the rest. But Martinez, who was still
present, intervened, entering into a rapid discussion with them. Did
they want to do him this favor he had asked them as comrades, or not?
Yes, but they were giving their own opinion of the matter. In their
judgment the logical thing would have been to put an end to the quarrel
right there on the Casino steps: two good punches at that slacker who
wasn't going to war and took the liberty of annoying those who were
doing their duty! They talked like men thoroughly aware of the fragility
of life, like men who know how easy it is to take another man's life, or
to lose one's. They laughed instinctively at the importance, the
ceremonies and the so-called "equities" with which in peace times a
private encounter is surrounded. But in the end, since their comrade
insisted on their representing him in this farce, they would do it to
please him, even though their compliance might get them into the guard
house.
Scarcely had Martinez withdrawn, when one of the Captains, the one with
the elephantine foot in a felt shoe, confessed his lack of competence in
such matters.
"I never saw a duel in Bordeaux. I have no idea what it's like. Before
the war I was a traveling salesman in Mexico. Wine was my line. I sailed
with all the Frenchmen who were living there, and by a miracle we were
not captured by a _Boche_ pirate. I started in as a second class
private; but I did what I could. If it were a business matter I would
give my opinion, but in a thing like this!... Perhaps my comrade here."
Another Martinez! Don Marcos forgot the Captain with the felt shoe. He
was the Lewis of the opposite side. He concentrated all his attention on
the Captain with the shiny boots and the toy cane. The latter must be an
adversary worthy of him. It was a shame that his clear eyes should have
the ironical expression of a man who makes a joke of everything, and
that under his red mustache, trimmed short, in the English fashion,
there should flit a faint look of insolence!
He was born in Paris, as he proudly declared as soon as he started to
speak; and when Don Marcos slyly sounded him to find out whether or not
he was an expert in affairs of honor and had witnessed many duels, he
said in a simple way:
"More than a hundred."
Toledo had not been mistaken. This was the man with whom he would have
the struggle. Then he thought of the number, and compared it with the
Captain's age. More than a hundred, and surely he was not over
twenty-six! He had a presentiment that he was going to be up against
some famous swordsman, whose glorious name has been momentarily obscured
by the war.
The Captain and the Colonel were the only ones to do any talking. In the
beginning the Captain had had an air of jesting, with a Parisian sense
of humor, at the solemn, high-sounding terms in which Don Marcos treated
questions of honor. But the Colonel's reserved and persistent
grandiloquence finally got the better of the other's inclination to
banter. The young Captain took the same tone as the Colonel, finally
interested in the affair and recognizing its importance.
At certain moments, the Colonel felt doubtful on listening to the way in
which his rival formulated amazing heresies, revealing absolute
ignorance of the great authorities who have codified the laws of
encounters between gentlemen. And this man had been present at more than
a hundred duels! Later, Don Marcos was amazed at the promptness with
which the texts he had cited himself were appropriated by the young man;
at the ease with which his classics had been assimilated, somewhat
inverted in meaning, to be sure, the better to sustain affirmations
contrary to his own.
When the encounter was arranged for in its slightest details, the
Captain summed up his impressions with a simplicity that made the blood
of Don Marcos run cold.
"One or both perhaps will be wounded. There is nothing extraordinary
about that. Who isn't wounded these days? Surgery has made great
progress; it is quite different from what it was at the beginning of the
war. If a man doesn't die on the spot, he is nearly always saved.
Besides, they will put them to bed and they won't remain abandoned on
the field for days and days, as happens in war."
But the placid expression with which he talked about wounds was clouded
over, giving way to a grim look.
"I am assuming, of course," he continued, "that no one is killed.
Because if, for example, my comrade, Martinez, who is as gentle as a
lamb and of whom I am very fond, should die in this farce, I'll kill
your Prince on the spot, without any rules whatsoever, the way we kill
a _Boche_ at the front."
The tone in which he said these words was so sincere, that the Colonel,
deeply impressed by them, did not observe how strange they sounded in
the mouth of an expert in the laws of honor.
The conversation became more intimate and cordial as always happens when
a difficult matter has been settled. Toledo was obliged to tell them
about his life as a soldier--at least the way he imagined it had been,
after so many years--and both young men, who had witnessed the combats
of millions of men, showed the same interest as children listening to a
strange tale, as he related obscure encounters in the mountains, battles
that did not even have a name and were remembered only in an exaggerated
fashion by Don Marcos himself.
The Parisian Captain, elegant and charming, also talked about his past.
"As for me, before the war, I worked in the Box Office of the theaters
on the Boulevard. I haven't any other position."
Don Marcos had to make an effort to conceal his surprise. Indeed, he had
seen more than a hundred duels; but in plays on the stage, between
actors, who draw out the preliminaries of the encounters with
ceremonious deliberation, in order to prolong the suspense of the
audience. He should have guessed it on hearing his nonsense! What a fool
that boy had made of him!
But immediately his eyes fell on the coats of the two young men. The
same as Martinez: The Legion of Honor, the Military Medal and the War
Cross, with stars. That of the former ticket seller was even crossed by
a golden palm.
Ah, indeed! The world had changed. Where were the days of Don Marcos?
Then he thought of all he had done in his life to increase his own self
esteem; by appearing in full ceremony at various duels where most often
no blood was shed. He also thought of what these young men had done and
seen in less than four years. Their obscure origin brought to his memory
the various warriors of Napoleon, whose names were celebrated and whose
origin had been even worse. Some of them had succeeded in becoming
kings, while these poor Captains once the war was over, would have to
return, laden with glory, to their former occupations, struggling day by
day to earn their bread!
They separated, agreeing to meet after dinner, to sign the paper stating
the conditions of the encounter. They were all four in accord, but on
mentioning this number, Toledo noticed that there were only three. Lewis
had witnessed the long preliminaries with a certain impatience, seated
on a divan in the ante-room of the Casino.
"There's a friend waiting for me. I'll be back in a moment."
And he had entered the gambling rooms, which were forbidden to the
officers.
The Colonel had no illusions as to the duration of that moment, about
two hours having passed. After leaving the Captains, he found Lewis at a
_trente et quarante_ table, with a heap of thousand franc chips in front
of him. Of course he did not understand what Toledo whispered in his
ear. He had to make an effort to recall.
"Oh, yes, the matter of the duel! I have every confidence in you; do
whatever you please, I shall sign what you give me, but I am not going
to get up, even though they might tell me Lubimoff was dead. What a day
this has been, my friends! If they were all like this!"
And he turned his back, to make the most of his time, before the flight
of luck would change.
Don Marcos had dined in the Cafe de Paris, going over in his mind the
various articles he should put in the dueling agreement. The
consideration that they were all relying on his superior knowledge
caused him to be very exacting with himself. He wanted something concise
and brilliant which would inspire respect in those boys, who were
covered with glory. And he spent more than an hour, with the dessert
dishes in front of him on the table, scribbling over sheet after sheet
of paper, tearing each one up and beginning all over again on another.
It was futile work: both signed in the reading room of the Casino,
hardly giving the eloquent text a glance. As for Lewis he was obliged to
get him out of the private gambling rooms by every sort of trick, and
entreaty. The Englishman had forgotten to dine, in order not to offend
Madame Fortune by his absence, and that stubborn Colonel came and
disturbed him with his damned affair of the duel!
He signed the document without looking at it; he gave his word to the
officers that he would come and get them in an automobile to take them
to his castle. Then he ran away immediately, not without first saying to
Don Marcos in a gruff tone:
"Until four o'clock, no later! If it isn't all over at four, I'll let
them kill each other alone and come back here. That's the hour that the
fine deals commence. To-day's luck is going to continue."
And he fled, smiling with pity on people who were occupied with less
important things.
On finding himself alone, the Colonel began to make preparations for the
encounter. He needed a doctor. He would go next morning and find an old
physician in Monte Carlo who visited the Prince from time to time. He
needed powder and balls; he proposed to go in quest of them to-morrow
also. He needed two cases of pistols, and he had only one!
The matter of the two cases he considered essential. The other man's
seconds did not know where to get theirs. No matter; he would find them
one. The indispensable thing was that there should be two, so that fate
might decide which they should use. Without that, the conditions would
not be equal. And he spent the time until about one o'clock in the
morning, asking hotel employees, rousing people out of bed, going down
to the rooms of the Sporting Club, until an American whom he knew gave
him a note for a certain fellow-countryman, a gloomy, half crazy fellow,
who lived in an isolated villa on Cap-Ferrat. He thought he would
conclude this negotiation the following day; and to do so he had rented
an automobile.
Owing to the lack of vehicles and gas, the cost of the car was enormous;
but it was necessary owing to the importance of his functions.
But now he was in Villa Sirena, at two o'clock in the morning, slowly
cleaning the pistols, as though they were fragile jewels.
In the silence of his bedroom, far from mankind, influenced by the
lonely mystery of the small hours of the night, which puts a certain
vagueness in things and ideas, he felt an enormous self-aggrandizement.
No; his world had not changed as much as he thought. The proof was that
he was there, cleaning weapons for a duel!
* * * * *
On waking up the next morning, the Prince could not find his
"chamberlain". The rented auto had carried him off at seven o'clock, to
complete his preparations.
Lubimoff wandered about the gardens, stopping in front of the cages,
which sheltered various exotic birds. Then with an absent-minded look,
he followed the evolutions of various peacocks, spreading their tails,
colored blue and golden, or a royal black, in the sunlight.
His old valet interrupted his promenade. Some men had come with a truck
to get Senor Castro's baggage.
Michael showed no surprise; they might hand over everything to them that
belonged to Don Atilio. But the servant added that the same men also
wanted to take away the little that belonged to Senor Spadoni, news
which amazed the Prince. He, too! What reason had Spadoni to desert him?
He glanced at the brief note written to the Colonel and signed by them
both. In his flight, Castro was taking with him the dreamy pianist.
"All right," he thought; "let them all leave; let them leave me alone.
If they think that by doing so they are going to make me refrain from
carrying out my intention!..."
Then he resumed his walk.
Only a few hours remained before he would find himself facing that young
man whom he so hated. He was going coldly to do away with him, so that
he would not continue to be a nuisance. The conditions planned by the
Colonel were sufficient for a marksman of his skill to bring down his
adversary. He needed only a single shot.
For a moment he thought of going to the end of the gardens, where he
sometimes passed the time shooting. It was a good idea that he should
practise steadiness of hand--the pistol is full of surprises. Then he
decided not to, as it seemed unworthy that he should add these
preparations to his evident superiority. His mediocre adversary could
not be practising at that time. He had no facilities for doing so in
Monte Carlo where he had no other friends than his convalescent comrades
and a few ladies. He, on the other hand!... he held out his muscular
arm, keeping it rigid for a few seconds with his eye glued on his fist.
There was not the slightest tremor! He would be able to place a ball
wherever he wanted. Poor Martinez might consider himself a dead man. And
not the slightest sign of remorse disturbed the Prince's infernal pride
in his implacable strength.
His consciousness of superiority was so great and his certainty in the
result so absolute, that he finally began to feel some doubt, that
feeling of uneasiness which is inspired by the mystery of things still
to be accomplished. Suddenly there came crowding into his memory stories
of combats in which the weak unexpectedly triumphed over the strong,
through an obscure mandate of inherent justice. He recalled many novels
in which the reader draws a sigh of relief on seeing that the hero,
modest and agreeable, placed in danger of death by the "villain," who is
stronger and wickeder than he, not only saves his own life, but in
addition kills his adversary, through some happy chance; all of which
goes to show the existence of some superior and just power which on most
occasions seems asleep, but at certain moments awakens, giving each
person what he deserves. Since the time of David, the little barefoot
shepherd, killing with a stone the huge giant clad in bronze, humanity
has enjoyed such stories.
Pistols are capricious weapons, and lend themselves to the absurd
determinations of fate. Might he not fall, with all his skill, at the
poor Lieutenant's first shot?
He held out his arm again, as before, looking at his clenched first.
Then he smiled, with the smile of his ancestors, which gave his features
a Mongolian ugliness. Mere traditional fiction, inventions of story
writers, to flatter the public in a sentimental love of equality! The
strong are always the strong. Within a few hours he would sweep that
nuisance out of the way, calmly and without remorse, the way superior
men always act.
A roaring sound coming from the railway line drew him from his
thoughts. It was a trainload of soldiers approaching, like all the
others, with an ovation of shouts, acclamations and whistling. It was
rolling along towards Italy, in the direction opposite to that of the
numerous trains coming to the French front. The Prince walked over to a
garden terrace, the stone flower-covered wall of which descended to the
track. The cars seemed to pass of their own will before his eyes,
showing him one side as they rounded the curve, and then the other as
they reached another curve, where they were lost to view.
The uniform of these combatants puzzled the Prince for a moment, as an
unexpected novelty. They were dressed in dark blue serge, with their
blouses open at the neck, and sleeves rolled up. On their heads they
wore white caps with the brims turned up all around, like the little
paper boats that children make.
He finally recognized them: they were sailors from the United States, a
battalion, sailors from the fleet, going to Italy so that the Stars and
Stripes might represent the huge republic on the icy summits of the Alps
and on the hot marshy plains of Venetia.
With the rapidity of mental visions, which reveal, one superimposed upon
the other but nevertheless distinct, a great number of diverse images,
the Prince recalled the harbors of North America which he had visited in
his youth, aquatic beehives, gathering together all the work and riches
of the earth; monstrous, interminable cities, with populations as large
as nations, and in which liberty and well-being seemed to have reached
their highest limits.... And these men were leaving the comforts of a
scientifically organized existence, their productive business, their
amply remunerative work, their immediate hopes of wealth, perhaps to die
for an ideal in the Old World, merely for an ideal, since they were not
seeking new strips of land nor indemnities for their country! And until
then, the average person had considered this country as the most
materialistic, the least poetic and idealist of all nations, calling it
the land of the dollar!... It was true that unselfish ideals were
something more than words, since millions of men were coming across the
sea to give their blood for them!
The sailors, after passing through the city of Monte Carlo, where they
were greeted with cheers and waving flags, were entering the open
country, where their shouts faded away with no answering echoes. For
this reason their attention was attracted by that flowering terrace and
the man appearing above it. It was like a procession on review: the
carriages, one by one, came to life as they passed the Prince. From all
the car windows arms with sleeves rolled up projected, shaking white
caps. On the car roofs, a few strapping lads were gesticulating, with
arms and legs extended, while the wind rippled in the folds of their
dark trousers, above the white leggings. More than a thousand throats
greeted the solitary man on the terrace with gay whistling, hurrahs, or
unintelligible cries, which gave vent to the exuberant feelings of those
youths, hungry for danger and glory, full of joy and curiosity, as they
passed through an Old World which to them was new.
Lubimoff remained motionless, with his elbows on the railing, and his
chin in one hand, as though he did not see that pent-up river of men,
gliding along below his feet. The gay sailors, as they passed, turned
their heads, repeating their shouts and greetings, as though anxious to
awaken that human figure, rigid and clinging to the balustrade as though
forming a part of its decoration.
He had completely forgotten the thoughts and worries of a moment before.
All he saw was that torrent of young men rushing to meet danger and
death for certain ideals as simple and beautiful as their blossoming
youth. They were coming from the other side of the earth with that
naive faith that accomplishes the great miracles of history; and in the
meantime, Prince Lubimoff, who, by dint of seeking after superior ideas
and exquisite sensations, had finally come to believe in nothing, was
there at his garden rail, calculating the surest means of killing a man,
a man who was useful, like those who were passing.
Castro's image arose in his mind. He, too, had witnessed two days
before, the passing of a train. He recalled the impression so deep and
powerful that had impelled him to leave Villa Sirena, and break with his
relative. He could see, just as it had been described to him, the bitter
look of that red-headed soldier insulting him with scorn.
"There's room here for one more!"
The American sailors continued their whistling, and their exuberantly
youthful shouting; but it seemed to him that these voices and waving of
hands said the same as the other man's words, inviting him with ironical
politeness: "Come; there's a place here for you!" A little later, and
the voices were dumb, but he could still hear them, deep in his soul,
like the far-off booming of a bell. He had considered himself a brave
man, who as a matter of distinction, of sophistication, of refined
indifference, preferred to keep aloof from things which rouse enthusiasm
in other mortals. But the far-off tolling of the bell protested, ringing
in his ear, repeating a single word: "Coward! Coward!"
He walked about the garden in a pensive mood until Toledo arrived in the
afternoon. They had lunch in a hurry, and the Colonel made several
recommendations. His knowledge of dueling matters, which has as many
branches as the tree of science, touched in one of its ramifications on
cooking. The Prince should not take any wine; since he must keep his
hand steady. And as the Colonel said this he was praying inside that
the bullets would all go astray, since both contestants inspired an
equal interest in him. Some soft boiled eggs, nothing more; and not much
liquid. At the last moment he should remember to empty his bladder. A
terrible thing a wound with internal leakage! Nothing escaped the
Colonel--he thought of everything.
He went up to his room to put on the frock coat he wore at duels. The
moment for officiating had arrived. He remained hesitating in front of
the mirror, realizing the lack of harmony between this majestic garment
and the derby that topped off his appearance. Oh, the war! He smiled at
the absurd thought of presenting himself thus four years before--it
seemed like four centuries--in those Paris duels, in which the seconds
and adversaries felt that it was only decent to go to meet death with an
elegant, shiny, high hat.
Having omitted this solemn touch, he felt that he might look somewhat
ridiculous sitting in the automobile beside the Prince, with his long
frock coat and the two pistol cases on his knees.
The carriage stopped in the Boulevard des Moulins, in front of the
doctor's house. Wounded soldiers were passing, some with fixed stares,
tapping the pavement in front of them with sticks, others tottering
along out of weakness or owing to an amputation.
A woman's voice, smooth and sweet, greeted the Prince. It was the voice
of an extremely slender nurse, who was walking arm and arm with two
blind officers. Michael and Don Marcos recognized Lewis' niece. She
smiled at them, showing them the two strapping Englishmen whom she was
serving as a guide; two fair-haired Apollos, tanned by the sun, with
Roman profiles, shining teeth, and lithe bodies, strong and symmetrical,
but with vacant eyes--like fires that have gone out--and a tragic
expression on their lips, an expression of despair and protest at
finding themselves dead in the midst of life.
"They are my two 'crushes'. How do you like them?" She was jesting in
order to cheer up her companions, with that joyousness and daring of a
Virgin Dolorosa, passing through the world scattering pale rays of
Northern sunlight in the ambulances and hospitals. She seemed to be made
entirely of the same stuff as the sacramental Host, fragile, anaemic,
white and transparent, like dim crystal. And she went away, guiding like
children the two blind men, despairing and handsome, whose heads towered
above her own. A slight pressure of their fingers would have been enough
to crush that body, like an alabaster lamp, all light, of no more
substance than was necessary to guard the inner flame and cause it to
shine through.
"Good-by, Lady Lewis!" said the Prince.
Don Marcos started on hearing his voice; it was a solemn voice such as
he had never heard, a tremulous voice like a sentimental song in the
depths of which lay teardrops.
The doctor laid his surgical case on the frayed carpet in the auto.
There were three such cases now. It was not until then that the Colonel
decided to relieve himself of the two precious boxes, placing them on
top of the doctor's.
The car started off up the mountain, by a road that rose in sharp
zigzags. At the end of each angle, Monte Carlo was revealed, smaller and
smaller, and more sunken, like a toy city built of blocks with its red
roof and many ants threading its streets to gather together in the
Square. On the other hand, the sea seemed to arch its back, constantly
rising, devouring with its blue rectilinear jaws a portion of the sky at
each turn in the climb.
On the crest of the hill a huge mass of masonry kept growing more and
more gigantic; La Trophee, a name which had finally changed to La
Turbie, the medieval name of the little gray, walled village, which
huddled about the monument. Two slender columns of white marble flanking
the rubble-work, and a piece of the cornice were all that remained of
the proudest of Roman trophies--a tower 30 meters in height, with a
gigantic statue of Augustus, on its summit, which marked on the Alps the
boundary between the lands of the Empire and those of the conquered
Gauls. The auto, leaving the hamlet of La Turbie behind, was now running
along the ancient Roman road.
"I can see the Legions," Don Marcos gravely murmured.
It was a mania of his. He had never had sufficient imagination to be
able to see the Legions for himself; but after witnessing in a moving
picture film a procession of supers, with bare legs and short swords,
following Julius Caesar's horse, Roman military life had had no mysteries
for him, and every time he went up to La Turbie he murmured the same
words: "I can see the Legions."
A few minutes later he forgot his resurrection of the warlike past to
point out various buildings, of such a bluish gray color that they
blended with the hills behind them. It was Lewis' castle. Standing out
from it, one could see solitary towers, joined to the square mass of the
buildings by causeways; watch towers flanking the gates; sharp slate
roofs, with double rows of tiny dormers; roofs that only had the wooden
rafters, through which one could see, as though the interior had been
gutted by a fire; walls half built, descending at a right angle like a
stone carpenter's square riveted to the ground on its long edge.
From a distance the castle might have been taken for an abandoned ruin.
Lewis, having lost hope of being able to finish it, declared in good
faith that it was better thus, since it would save him the trouble of
decorating it with artificial ruins. It looked like some legendary
fortress, such as those his father, the historian, had described, made
for gray skies, for moist green forests, and which seemed anxious to
escape from the sun-baked landscape of scanty vegetation, and to shrink
from contact with the olive trees, the cacti, and the woody thickets
covered with coarse flowers.
They got out of the car on a smooth piece of ground, bordered on two
sides by two buildings, meeting to form a right angle. It was the court
of honor, the future parade ground of the castle. On the other two
sides, some walls that rose only a meter above the soil, suggested what
the courtyard might some day be, if Fortune would only cease being so
intractable for the proprietor. At the open end of the flat ground was
another hired car, and beside it the three soldiers.
Lewis came forward to greet the Prince. They had arrived a short time
before, and as he was in a hurry, he went into conference with the
Colonel at once.
Don Marcos was the oracle that he must consult in order not to lose any
time. Might they end this business right here? Would it not be better to
do it behind the castle, in an orchard surrounded by old olive trees?
The Colonel, with a pistol case under each arm, was examining the
terrain. The one thing that really concerned him at first was his own
person. He felt, indeed, that he looked ridiculous. There were these
three officers with their uniforms; the Prince, with his dark blue
street suit; the doctor, dressed like an old man; Lewis, as usual, with
the wide straw hat, without which he would never dream of taking a trip
to the castle; and there he was himself wrapped in his large, solemn
frock coat, which seemed to frighten the very doves, that had taken
refuge in the gables and the ruined walls.
After taking a glance behind the castle, he decided on the court-yard,
which was free from trees. He would place the two contestants so that
their figures would not stand out as targets, against a wall in the
background.
Lewis, in spite of his haste, felt it necessary to do the honors of the
house.
"A glass of whiskey?" As they had not given him time to make
preparations, and as he was now living at Monte Carlo, his cellar was
exhausted. But he was sure that by looking around a little he could come
across a good bottle. What respectable house could not produce a bottle
of whiskey for friends?
"When we have finished, my Lord," said Don Marcos, scandalized at this
invitation which was an infringement upon solemn regulations.
The four seconds and the doctor were in a room on the ground floor,
adorned with ancient battle trophies. The two contestants had been
forgotten in the courtyard, like actors waiting for their turn to
appear.
Toledo opened the pistol cases, and gave the captains the one he had
found that morning at Cap-Ferrat. Fate was to decide which of the two
were to be used.
"It isn't necessary," said the Parisian. "Either one, it's all the same
to us. Arrange it all to suit yourself."
Don Marcos protested against this irreverent desire to shorten the
ceremonials. It was all quite necessary; they were there on very grave
business.
A five-franc piece shone in his hand. What efforts it had cost him to
obtain that piece of money. Of all the preparations of the morning, that
had taken the most time and been the most difficult to arrange. Coins
had disappeared with the coming of the war. One could find nothing but
paper money, and a five-franc note was of no use in a matter of heads or
tails! He had been obliged to ask one of the important officers in the
Casino to hand over that precious disc.
"Heads or tails?"
And the Colonel felt a secret thrill of joy as luck favored his ancient
pistols. He was beginning to triumph!
The doctor, in the meantime, was looking out of the drawing room door,
with a certain air of amazement, not to say of indignation. His eyes
were fixed on the Colonel. Finally, he called Don Marcos aside. Was that
Lieutenant the man who was going to fight the Prince? He knew the boy; a
friend of his, an army surgeon had talked to him about the Lieutenant's
case as an astonishing instance of vitality. It was a disgusting piece
of foolishness that was being planned: it amounted to murder. Why, that
boy might fall stark dead before the first shot was fired! They had
performed an amazingly delicate operation on his skull; it was a miracle
that he had survived at all, and he might fall dead instantly at the
slightest emotion.
Don Marcos found an heroic answer, worthy of himself.
"Doctor, for a man like that, fighting is not an emotion."
He then proceeded with slow solemnity to carry out the most delicate
part of the proceedings: the loading of the pistols. The two captains
followed with a look of curiosity this operation, which was quite
strange for them, though they imagined they had seen a whole lot of
military life. The Parisian almost laughed as he watched how Toledo
handled the diminutive ivory spoon which contained the charge of powder,
scrutinizing it carefully before pouring it into the barrel of the
weapon, with a certain fear of having put a grain more in one than in
the other. Toledo was sure the heroic jester was making fun of his
scrupulous precautions. But the Captain would not dare deny his interest
in the novelty of the ceremony.
Lewis went out to get the automobiles moved away as far as a nearby
grove, much to the disgust of the chauffeurs. They obeyed reluctantly,
intending to return, even though they might have to creep along the
ground, to witness the spectacle.
Toledo left the two pistols on an ancient Venetian table. They were
ready! No one was to touch them! They were something sacred. Then his
eyes, falling on the wall in front of him, were lighted with a sudden
gleam of inspiration; he hurriedly advanced and unhooked two rusty
swords from a panoply and went out with them into the courtyard.
Deserted by their seconds, the contestants had begun to pace up and
down, pretending they did not see each other, and each catching the
other looking at him from the corner of his eye.
They both suddenly found themselves in the situation of the preceding
afternoon. It was as though no time had passed, as though they were
still on the top steps of the Casino.
All that the Prince had been thinking over in the last few hours and
that had followed him until then in his thoughts, with a suggestion of
remorse, immediately vanished. So this young gentleman was the man who
had tried to strike him, Prince Lubimoff! He would soon find out what
such daring was to cost him.
But his anger seemed less violent than on the preceding day, something
more reasoned, more completely the product of his will; and this
weakening finally made him angry at himself.
The other man was more instinctive in his rancor. As he looked at the
Prince, he saw also the sweet image of that great lady, his
benefactress. It was because the Prince was rich that he had tried to
trample on him, treating him like one of his serfs, on his far-off
estates in Russia. All the best things in life had been for this
aristocrat, and now he was claiming possession of the few scattered
crumbs, even of happiness that fall to the unfortunate! He did not know
how to kill a man in these regulated combats; but he was going to kill,
nevertheless, and felt the absolute confidence in himself that had
animated him out there in the trenches in the cruelest days of danger
and success.
The presence of Don Marcos with a sword in either hand disturbed their
reflections and interrupted their walking back and forth. They both came
to a standstill. The Colonel looked at the sky, then took several paces
in different directions. He wanted to fix it so that neither of the
contestants would have the sun in his eyes.
Finally he proudly thrust one of the swords into the ground. It seemed
to him appropriate to the character of the place, to make use of these
ancient weapons. They seemed to him more in harmony with Lewis' romantic
castle, than two stakes or two cans. But his satisfaction this time was
of short duration. On raising his eyes, he saw that Prince, and he saw
Martinez....
Poor Colonel! Up to that moment he had proceeded like a priest
intoxicated by his own ceremonious words and his own incense, without
thinking of the person in whose interest they are offered up. He had
prepared all these formalities with the blind fervor of a professional
who resumes his functions after several years of inaction, and thinks
only of his work, forgetting for whom it is being done. He had managed
everything in accordance with the rites, so that two gentlemen might
kill each other in compliance with the strictest conventions; but now,
at the supreme moment, he realized for the first time that these two men
were his Prince and his Martinez, his fellow countryman, his hero.
He was amazed to think that he had been able to go as far as he had gone
up to that point. He felt the astonishment of a drunken man recovering
his reason in the midst of objects broken by him in a fierce delirium.
He recalled Castro's words and those of the doctor; why had _he_ not
seen that this duel was a piece of foolishness? Repentance seemed to
rush upon him. There was a burning sensation in his eyes, which began to
fill with tears. But now it was too late. He must go on, even though his
serenity should fail him.
The one thing that he had forgotten in his minute preparations was the
tape measure, and he saw in this omission an act of Providence. Starting
from the sword planted in the ground he began to pace off the terrain.
But they were not paces that he took; they were enormous strides. He
fairly leaped. Now he was absolutely sure of the ridiculousness of his
appearance, as his coattails flapped back and forth like wings, as they
were thrust aside by the vigorous movements of his legs. "Fifteen
paces." And he planted the second sword.
If he could have had his way, he would have gone to the farthest end of
the open field; perhaps as far as the place where the automobiles were
awaiting. Then he looked uneasily at the ground he had measured. It was
surely over twenty meters; a betrayal! What cowardice! Might God and
gentlemen forgive him!
Once more he brought out the five-franc piece. He had to decide again by
chance the position of each contestant. The Parisian captain greeted
this proposal with a bored air.
"But I told you before to do whatever you pleased!"
Lewis was muttering impatiently under his mustache.
When the coin had marked the position of each one, Don Marcos placed the
Prince beside one sword.
"Marquis: your hat," he said in a low voice.
Lubimoff, understanding this suggestion, took off his hat, throwing it
some distance away. His adversary could not fight with his _kepis_ on
his head. Its yellowish color and the emblem of the Legion embroidered
on the brim of the cap made him conspicuous in an unfair manner. His
uniform also worried Toledo, who tried to do away with all the visible
details on it.
Assisted by one of the captains, he proceeded to strip Martinez of his
decorations of honor, after placing him beside the other sword. It was
like a ceremony of degradation. They took off his _kepis_, then his
medals, the red ribbon that hung from his shoulder, and the dark tan
strips across his breast and the belt of the same color around his
waist. The Lieutenant seemed reduced in stature and dignity in his loose
uniform, without his decorations. The Parisian, always in a merry mood,
compared him to a plucked bird.
The Colonel felt that it was necessary to repeat aloud the conditions of
the duel. The Prince knew them and was accustomed to such encounters. It
was Martinez who needed his suggestions. After he, as the director of
the combat, should give the word "Fire!" he would slowly count, "one,
two, three." They might aim and fire in that space of time. "Be very
careful, Lieutenant!" Don Marcos spoke with tragic solemnity.
"If you fire before the _one_ or after the _three_, you will be declared
a felon."
The matter of being declared a felon frightened the young man. He didn't
know exactly what it was, but the Colonel's look as he said this
terrible word, made a deep impression on him. He no longer thought so
vehemently of killing his adversary. This desire retreated into the
background. Nor did he think of the fact that he himself might be
killed. His one preoccupation was to calculate the time properly and
obey instructions without bothering about aiming; to fire before the
terrible _three_; so that he should not be given that horrible
mysterious name that made his hair stand on end.
Don Marcos entered the castle, and appeared again with the two loaded
pistols. He gave one to the Prince. The latter did not need any lessons.
He put the other in the Lieutenant's right hand, and told him how he
should stand, with his arm bent, holding the weapon high, presenting
only the narrow side of his body to his adversary. Once more he dwelt on
his warning. He should be careful not to make a mistake! Now he knew!
_One ... two ... three...._
He himself stood midway between the adversaries withdrawing only a few
paces from the line of fire. At that moment he was willing to die, so
they both might remain unharmed!
He took off his hat solemnly, and with a gesture of profound sadness.
"Gentlemen ..."
During the entire morning, as he walked from one place to another,
making his preparations, he had not ceased to think of what he would say
at that moment, working up a superb piece of oratory, brief and
stirring. He had frequently spoken at duels, meriting the approval of
the other seconds, retired Generals, and such experts, accustomed to
formalities of the kind. But the short harangue of to-day was going to
be his masterpiece.
"Gentlemen ..." he repeated. He hesitated, not knowing what to add, as
it had all been blotted from his memory. With a stammering voice, he
went on saying whatever occurred to him, with no attempt at order, and
without remembering a single word of the phrases which he had so
carefully polished some hours before.
"There was still time ... a little good will on their part; they were
both men of courage who had proved their valor ... an explanation at the
last moment was no dishonor!"
His words were lost in a tense silence. But this silence was not
absolute. There was somebody behind the Colonel, kicking the ground. It
was Lewis who was consulting his watch, with a scowl. It was after three
o'clock; the good series in the Casino had already begun.
The Colonel decided to end his speech. Besides, he was frightened at the
motionless and rigid figure of his Prince, with his pistol raised. He
had never seen him so ugly. His face was an earthen color, there was a
squint in his eyes, and his cheek bones protruded. His features had been
changed in a moment, as though the savagery of his remote ancestors,
awakened within, had risen to his face.
"Since there is no possible agreement ..."
At that moment the Colonel thought he had recalled the last part of his
forgotten speech. But the tread of brilliant words escaped him again,
and he was obliged to improvise, so he ended in a solemn fashion:
"Come, gentlemen! Honor ... is honor; and the laws of chivalry ... are
the laws of chivalry."
He heard at his back the murmur of approval. It was the voice of the
former ticket-seller. "Bravo! Wonderful!" But he did not care to hear
what he said. You could never tell when that fellow was in earnest.
"Ready?"
The silence of the two adversaries gave the Colonel to understand that
he might give the words of command.
"Fire!... One ..."
A shot rang out. Martinez, who was only thinking of the terrible three,
had fired.
He saw the Prince standing in front of him. He looked much taller; he
could see the black hole of his weapon, and above that hole an eye, with
a look of cold ferocity, which was choosing a point on his antagonist's
body to send the obedient bullet. And with unconscious arrogance, he
turned on his heel, so as to present not his profile, but the whole
breadth of his body.
The four seconds did not see this. Their eyes had focused on Lubimoff,
the personification of death.
Time contracts and expands us, according to our emotions. Its measure
and rhythm depend on the state of the human mind. Sometimes it gallops
along at a dizzy rate, over the faces of clocks that seem to have gone
mad; at other times, it collapses and refuses to proceed, and a
thousandth of a second embraces more emotions than months and years of
ordinary life. The four witnesses felt as though the hours had been
paralyzed, and the sun were remaining motionless forever. Time did not
exist.
"Two!" sighed Don Marcos, and it seemed to him that his lips would never
cease uttering this word, as though it were composed of an infinite
number of syllables.
Lewis had forgotten the existence of the Casino; he was conscious only
of the present. The Captain from Bordeaux, bending forward, was leaning
on his wounded foot, without feeling any pain; the other officer was
swearing between his teeth, and shaking his rattan cane until it hummed.
The doctor, with professional instinct, was stooping over the surgical
case that lay at his feet.
Lubimoff was going to kill him! All four were sure that he was going to
kill him. An implacable expression of security, and of ferocious
coolness, radiated from that man, with arm upraised, so motionless, and
pitiless. The expression on his Kalmuck face was of such deep fatality,
his one eye tightly shut and the other open, that they could all see an
imaginary line drawn from the mouth of the pistol to the breast of the
man opposite, the road that the tiny sphere of lead was going to follow
with inexorable accuracy.
Proud of his superiority, the Prince postponed the moment of dealing
death, with a sort of savage playfulness. He had his enemy in his claws,
and could toy with him during those three months, that were as long as
centuries.
In the dizzy coincidence of image whirling through his brain, he could
see the Princess, his mother, beautiful and arrogant, as she was when
she recounted to him as a little boy, the greatness of the Lubimoffs.
Then he saw his father, the General, somber and kindly, saying in a
rough voice: "The strong man must be kind."
As he thought of his father, his pistol swerved slightly, but
immediately he corrected his aim.
In his imagination a train was slowly passing. French soldiers. He saw
Castro and the insolent red-haired fellow who was offering him a seat.
Another train advanced in the opposite direction, an endless train that
kept coming from the depths of the ocean. Hurrahs, whistling, dark
blouses, blue collars, little caps that looked as though made of paper.
"Good afternoon, Prince!" The luminous smile of a pale Virgin: Lady
Lewis with her two blind men, handsome and tragic....
His pistol fell. Above it he could see the entire body of his adversary,
that obscure soldier, condemned to die before long no doubt, from wounds
received in a land that was not his own, for a cause which was that of
all men.
"Three!" said the Colonel.
But before he could finish the word, a shot rang out. The grass stirred
at intervals along the soil as the invisible bullet ricocheted into the
distance.
The scythe-like stroke passed close to the legs of the Director of the
combat; but Don Marcos was in no mood to notice such a thing. His
child-like joy made him run hither and thither. His frock coat seemed to
laugh as its tails flapped up and down.
He was so happy, that he almost embraced Martinez. The latter must shake
hands with the Prince, a reconciliation was necessary.
The officer refused to take this advice. He had his doubts about the way
the combat had ended. The Prince had fired at the ground, and he was not
going to let him spare his life like that.
"Young man!" said Don Marcos, with an air of authority, "you are new in
such affairs. Let yourself be guided by those who know more and give the
Prince your hand."
Immediately he went in quest of Lubimoff.
He saw him standing on the same spot. He had thrown the pistol away and
was covering his face with his hands.
The only one beside him was Lewis.
"Come, Prince! What's this? Be calm! Perhaps a good glass of whiskey."
Toledo heard a sob of anguish, the choking of a stifled breast.
Respectfully he drew away one of the Prince's hands leaving his face
uncovered. At present it was a dull brick red, shiny with sweat and
tears.
Lubimoff was weeping.
The Colonel recalled the dead Princess in her days of stormy humor,
when, after an explosion of wrath, she would wring her hands, and ask
forgiveness, weeping hysterically.
As he gently took his hand, he felt that the Prince was following him,
meekly without any will of his own. Martinez was waiting a few steps
away.
"Shake hands. It's all over. Gentlemen are always ... gentlemen."
They shook hands.
And then something unexpected happened which produced a long silence of
surprise and amazement.
Michael bent forward, knelt down, and raised to his lips the hand he was
holding in his own, with the same humble gesture that the serfs of the
Steppes had used in the presence of his powerful ancestors.
Then he kissed it, moistening it with his tears.