The following day I was obliged to go to Nice, and did not return till
midnight. The porter told me that Jules le Ferrier had been to see me.
The next morning, while I was still in bed, the door was opened, and
Jules appeared. His face was very pale; and the moment he stood still
drops of perspiration began coursing down his cheeks.
“Georges!” he said, “he is dead. There, there! How stupid you look! My
man is packing. I have half an hour before the train; my evidence shall
come from Italy. I have done my part, the rest is for you. Why did you
have that dinner? The Don Quixote! The idiot! The poor man! Don't move!
Have you a cigar? Listen! When you followed him, I followed the other
two. My infernal curiosity! Can you conceive a greater folly? How fast
they walked, those two! feeling their cheeks, as if he had struck them
both, you know; it was funny. They soon saw me, for their eyes were all
round about their heads; they had the mark of a glove on their cheeks.”
The colour began to come back, into Jules's face; he gesticulated
with his cigar and became more and more dramatic. “They waited for me.
'Tiens!' said one, 'this gentleman was with him. My friend's name is M.
Le Baron de—-. The man who struck him was an odd-looking person; kindly
inform me whether it is possible for my friend to meet him?' Eh!”
commented Jules, “he was offensive! Was it for me to give our dignity
away? 'Perfectly, monsieur!' I answered. 'In that case,' he said,
'please give me his name and address.... I could not remember his name,
and as for the address, I never knew it...! I reflected. 'That,' I said,
'I am unable to do, for special reasons.' 'Aha!' he said, 'reasons that
will prevent our fighting him, I suppose? 'On the contrary,' I said. 'I
will convey your request to him; I may mention that I have heard he is
the best swordsman and pistol-shot in Europe. Good-night!' I wished to
give them something to dream of, you understand.... Patience, my dear!
Patience! I was, coming to you, but I thought I would let them sleep
on it—there was plenty of time! But yesterday morning I came into the
Place, and there he was on the bench, with a big dog. I declare to you
he blushed like a young girl. 'Sir,' he said, 'I was hoping to meet
you; last evening I made a great disturbance. I took an unpardonable
liberty'—and he put in my hand an envelope. My friend, what do you
suppose it contained—a pair of gloves! Senor Don Punctilioso, hein? He
was the devil, this friend of yours; he fascinated me with his gentle
eyes and his white moustachettes, his humility, his flames—poor man...!
I told him I had been asked to take him a challenge. 'If anything comes
of it,' I said, 'make use of me!' 'Is that so?' he said. 'I am most
grateful for your kind offer. Let me see—it is so long since I fought
a duel. The sooner it's over the better. Could you arrange to-morrow
morning? Weapons? Yes; let them choose.' You see, my friend, there was
no hanging back here; nous voila en train.”
Jules took out his watch. “I have sixteen minutes. It is lucky for you
that you were away yesterday, or you would be in my shoes now. I fixed
the place, right hand of the road to Roquebrune, just by the railway
cutting, and the time—five-thirty of the morning. It was arranged that I
should call for him. Disgusting hour; I have not been up so early since
I fought Jacques Tirbaut in '85. At five o'clock I found him ready and
drinking tea with rum in it—singular man! he made me have some too,
brrr! He was shaved, and dressed in that old frock-coat. His great dog
jumped into the carriage, but he bade her get out, took her paws on his
shoulders, and whispered in her ear some Italian words; a charm, hein!
and back she went, the tail between the legs. We drove slowly, so as not
to shake his arm. He was more gay than I. All the way he talked to me of
you: how kind you were! how good you had been to him! 'You do not speak
of yourself!' I said. 'Have you no friends, nothing to say? Sometimes an
accident will happen!' 'Oh!' he answered, 'there is no danger; but if
by any chance—well, there is a letter in my pocket.' 'And if you should
kill him?' I said. 'But I shall not,' he answered slyly: 'do you think I
am going to fire at him? No, no; he is too young.' 'But,' I said, 'I—'I
am not going to stand that!' 'Yes,' he replied, 'I owe him a shot; but
there is no danger—not the least danger.' We had arrived; already they
were there. Ah bah! You know the preliminaries, the politeness—this
duelling, you know, it is absurd, after all. We placed them at twenty
paces. It is not a bad place. There are pine-trees round, and rocks; at
that hour it was cool and grey as a church. I handed him the pistol. How
can I describe him to you, standing there, smoothing the barrel with his
fingers! 'What a beautiful thing a good pistol!' he said. 'Only a fool
or a madman throws away his life,' I said. 'Certainly,' he replied,
'certainly; but there is no danger,' and he regarded me, raising his
moustachette.
“There they stood then, back to back, with the mouths of their pistols
to the sky. 'Un!' I cried, 'deux! tirez!' They turned, I saw the smoke
of his shot go straight up like a prayer; his pistol dropped. I ran to
him. He looked surprised, put out his hand, and fell into my arms. He
was dead. Those fools came running up. 'What is it?' cried one. I made
him a bow. 'As you see,' I said; 'you have made a pretty shot. My friend
fired in the air. Messieurs, you had better breakfast in Italy.' We
carried him to the carriage, and covered him with a rug; the others
drove for the frontier. I brought him to his room. Here is his letter.”
Jules stopped; tears were running down his face. “He is dead; I have
closed his eyes. Look here, you know, we are all of us cads—it is the
rule; but this—this, perhaps, was the exception.” And without another
word he rushed away....
Outside the old fellow's lodging a dismounted cocher was standing
disconsolate in the sun. “How was I to know they were going to fight
a duel?” he burst out on seeing me. “He had white hair—I call you to
witness he had white hair. This is bad for me: they will ravish my
licence. Aha! you will see—this is bad for me!” I gave him the slip and
found my way upstairs. The old fellow was alone, lying on the bed, his
feet covered with a rug as if he might feel cold; his eyes were closed,
but in this sleep of death, he still had that air of faint surprise. At
full length, watching the bed intently, Freda lay, as she lay nightly
when he was really asleep. The shutters were half open; the room still
smelt slightly of rum. I stood for a long time looking at the face:
the little white fans of moustache brushed upwards even in death, the
hollows in his cheeks, the quiet of his figure; he was like some old
knight.... The dog broke the spell. She sat up, and resting her paws on
the bed, licked his face. I went downstairs—I couldn't bear to hear her
howl. This was his letter to me, written in a pointed handwriting:
“MY DEAR SIR,—Should you read this, I shall be gone. I am ashamed to
trouble you—a man should surely manage so as not to give trouble; and
yet I believe you will not consider me importunate. If, then, you will
pick up the pieces of an old fellow, I ask you to have my sword, the
letter enclosed in this, and the photograph that stands on the stove
buried with me. My will and the acknowledgments of my property are
between the leaves of the Byron in my tin chest; they should go to Lucy
Tor—address thereon. Perhaps you will do me the honour to retain for
yourself any of my books that may give you pleasure. In the Pilgrim's
Progress you will find some excellent recipes for Turkish coffee,
Italian and Spanish dishes, and washing wounds. The landlady's daughter
speaks Italian, and she would, I know, like to have Freda; the poor dog
will miss me. I have read of old Indian warriors taking their horses
and dogs with them to the happy hunting-grounds. Freda would come—noble
animals are dogs! She eats once a day—a good large meal—and requires
much salt. If you have animals of your own, sir, don't forget—all
animals require salt. I have no debts, thank God! The money in my
pockets would bury me decently—not that there is any danger. And I am
ashamed to weary you with details—the least a man can do is not to make
a fuss—and yet he must be found ready.—Sir, with profound gratitude,
your servant,
“ROGER BRUNE.”
Everything was as he had said. The photograph on the stove was that of
a young girl of nineteen or twenty, dressed in an old-fashioned style,
with hair gathered backward in a knot. The eyes gazed at you with a
little frown, the lips were tightly closed; the expression of the face
was eager, quick, wilful, and, above all, young.
The tin trunk was scented with dry fragments of some herb, the history
of which in that trunk man knoweth not.... There were a few clothes, but
very few, all older than those he usually wore. Besides the Byron and
Pilgrim's Progress were Scott's Quentin Durward, Captain Marryat's
Midshipman Easy, a pocket Testament, and a long and frightfully stiff
book on the art of fortifying towns, much thumbed, and bearing date
1863. By far the most interesting thing I found, however, was a diary,
kept down to the preceding Christmas. It was a pathetic document, full
of calculations of the price of meals; resolutions to be careful over
this or that; doubts whether he must not give up smoking; sentences of
fear that Freda had not enough to eat. It appeared that he had tried to
live on ninety pounds a year, and send the other hundred pounds home to
Lucy for the child; in this struggle he was always failing, having to
send less than the amount--the entries showed that this was a nightmare
to him. The last words, written on Christmas Day, were these “What is
the use of writing this, since it records nothing but failure!”
The landlady's daughter and myself were at the funeral. The same
afternoon I went into the concert-room, where I had spoken to him first.
When I came out Freda was lying at the entrance, looking into the faces
of every one that passed, and sniffing idly at their heels. Close by the
landlady's daughter hovered, a biscuit in her hand, and a puzzled, sorry
look on her face.
September 1900.