competitors, who made it the object of venomous attack. The founder dipped
his pen in gall and acid, and his sword in the blood of his enemies. He
fought four duels, and having killed Armand Carrel, sheathed his rapier.
But he did not lay aside his pen, which was even more dreaded. Dujarier
proved an apt pupil, and by his command of irony and sarcasm at last
attracted to himself as much hatred and jealousy as his senior. The
special rival of his paper was the _Globe_, edited by Monsieur Granier de
Cassagnac, a journalist of the type we now denominate yellow. He had at
one time been on the staff of _La Presse_, to which he remained
financially indebted. Dujarier came across the debit notes signed by him,
and obtained a judgment against him. The exasperation of the _Globe_ knew
no bounds. The editor may be conceived addressing to his satellites the
reproaches used by Henry II.: "Of those that eat my bread, is there none
that will rid me of this pestilent journalist?" The appeal was responded
to by his wife's brother, Monsieur Jean Baptiste Rosemond de Beauvallon, a
Creole from Guadeloupe, then in his twenty-fifth year. He was dramatic
critic to the _Globe_, and in this capacity his acquaintance was sought by
Lola. Dujarier naturally objected to this, and his interference was not
forgiven by his journalist rival. The two men seemed doomed to cross each
other's path. There was a certain Madame Albert, with whom Dujarier had
been on terms of intimacy for some years. In December 1844 he ceased to
visit her, probably for no other reason than that he had transferred his
affections to Lola. As it happened, however, De Beauvallon made the lady's
acquaintance at this moment, and she spitefully suggested that Dujarier
had discontinued relations with her in order not to meet him. The Creole's
score against the literary editor of _La Presse_ was now a high one, and
he embraced his brother-in-law's quarrel with enthusiasm.
XII
THE SUPPER AT THE FRERES PROVENCAUX
At the beginning of March (1845), Lola, despite her failure at the Opera,
obtained an engagement at the Porte-St.-Martin Theatre for the musical
comedy _La Biche au Bois_. While she was rehearsing, she and her lover
received an invitation to supper at the Freres Provencaux, a fashionable
restaurant in the Palais Royal. The party was to be composed of some of
the liveliest men and women in Paris, and none of those invited were over
thirty-five years of age. Lola was keen to accept, but Dujarier would not
hear of her being seen in such a company. In spite of her protests he
decided, however, to go himself. It was the evening of 11th March.
He found himself the only guest, for all the others paid their shares in
the cost of the entertainment. The nominal hostess was Mademoiselle
Lievenne: "a splendid person, with abundant black hair, black eyes like a
Moorish woman or Arlesienne, dazzling skin, and opulent figure." There
were also at the table Mademoiselle Atila Beauchene, Mademoiselle Alice
Ozy, Mademoiselle Virginie Capon, and other charming ladies, all styling
themselves actresses, and spending a thousand francs a week out of a
salary of twenty-five. In attendance on this bevy of beauty were some of
the jolliest fellows in Paris. The oldest and most distinguished was Roger
de Beauvoir, whose curly black hair, wonderful waistcoats, and pearl-grey
pantaloons made him the delight of the fair sex, and the envy of his
fellow-boulevardiers. De Beauvallon was also present, but he and Dujarier
were not openly on bad terms, and nothing seemed likely to cloud the
general gaiety.
The fun waxed fast and furious. Champagne corks popped in all directions,
toasts were drunk to everybody and everything. Dujarier proposed "Monsieur
de Beauvoir's waistcoat," followed by "Monsieur de Beauvoir's raven
locks." The jovial Roger responded with the toast "Friend Dujarier's bald
head," and evoked roars of laughter by drinking to the Memoirs of Count
Montholon, with which _La Presse_ had promised to entertain its readers
for the last five years. Dujarier laughed as loudly as the others; the
champagne had risen to his head. He began to fondle the girls, and became
a little too bold even for their taste. "Anais," he murmured in an audible
whisper to Mademoiselle Lievenne, "je coucherai avec toi en six mois." The
next moment he realised he had gone too far. Recollecting himself, he
apologised, was forgiven, and the incident seemed to be forgotten by all.
The remains of the supper were removed, curtains drawn back, and one side
of the room left free for dancing, while a card-table occupied the other.
More people dropped in. De Beauvoir, finding the literary editor in such a
good humour, thought the moment opportune to remind him of one of his
romances which _La Presse_ had accepted but seemed in no hurry to publish.
To worry an editor about such a matter at such a moment is to court a
rebuff. Dujarier replied sharply that Dumas's novel would be running for
some time, adding that it was likely to prove more profitable to the paper
than De Beauvoir's serial would be. Roger, the best-humoured of men, was
nettled at this reply, and said so. "Good! do you seek an affair with me?"
retorted the editor. "No, I don't look for affairs, but I sometimes find
them," answered the author.
It is clear that Dujarier, like his mistress, seldom had his temper under
perfect control. He took a hand at _lansquenet_, and complained of the low
limit imposed by the banker, Monsieur de St. Aignan. He and De Beauvallon
offered to share the bank's risks and winnings. This being agreed to,
Dujarier threw down twenty-five louis, De Beauvallon five and a half. The
bank won twice, and Dujarier was entitled to a hundred louis. But St.
Aignan had made the mistake of understating the amount in the bank before
the cards were dealt, and now, therefore, found that the winnings were not
sufficient to satisfy him and his partners. He was about to make good the
deficit at his own expense, when De Beauvallon generously suggested to
Dujarier that they should share the loss in proportion to their stakes.
The literary editor preferred to stand upon his rights, and seems to have
been backed up by the bystanders. De Beauvallon said nothing more at the
time, but as the candles were flickering low and the party was preparing
to break up, he reminded his rival that he owed him (on some other score)
eighty-four louis. Dujarier replied tartly, but handed him the
seventy-five louis he had won, borrowed the odd nine louis from Collot,
the restaurant-keeper, and thus discharged the debt. He had lost on the
whole evening two thousand five hundred francs. In the grey March dawn
his head became clearer. He vaguely realised he had given deep offence to
two, at least, of his fellow revellers. He returned, anxious and haggard
to his lodgings in the Rue Laffitte, where Lola was eagerly awaiting him.
She guessed at once that something was amiss, and endeavoured in vain to
extract from him the cause of his evident agitation. Returning evasive
answers, the journalist hurried off to the office of _La Presse_.
XIII
THE CHALLENGE
Whether or not Dujarier had used offensive expressions to De Beauvallon on
this particular occasion, the opportunity for bringing to a head the
long-standing feud between the two newspapers was too good to be missed.
That afternoon the literary editor was waited upon at his office by two
gentlemen--the Vicomte d'Ecquevillez, a French officer in the Spanish
service, and the Comte de Flers. They informed him that they came upon
behalf of Monsieur de Beauvallon, who considered himself insulted by the
tone of his remarks the previous evening, and required an apology or
satisfaction. Dujarier affected contempt for his rival, making a point of
mispronouncing his name. He had no apology to offer, and referred his
visitors to Monsieur Arthur Berrand, and Monsieur de Boigne. As the
seconds withdrew D'Ecquevillez mentioned that Monsieur de Beauvoir also
considered himself entitled to satisfaction.
The rest of that day Lola could not but remark the intense pre-occupation
of her lover--that concentration of mind that all men experience at the
near menace of death. On the battle-field it may last for a minute or an
hour; in other circumstances it may last for days together. Dujarier felt
himself already a dead man. He had hardly handled a pistol in his life. He
envied his mistress, who had often given him an exhibition of her powers
as a shot. De Beauvallon, on the other hand, was known to be skilled in
all the arts of attack and defence. Nor could Dujarier doubt that he
wished to see him dead. In the evening Bertrand and De Boigne arrived.
Lola was with difficulty persuaded to leave them to attend her rehearsal.
Dujarier, pale and nervous, discussed the matter with his friends. "C'est
une querelle de boutique!" he exclaimed bitterly, but expressed his
determination to proceed with the affair if it cost him his life.
Bertrand, fully alive to the gravity of the situation, sought De
Beauvallon's seconds, and argued that nothing said by his principal could
be considered ground for an encounter. His efforts at a reconciliation
were useless. De Boigne tried to give precedence to De Beauvoir, who was
accounted an indifferent shot; but that easily placable author had just
lost his mother, and displayed no anxiety to defraud De Beauvallon of his
vengeance. Seeing the encounter was inevitable, Bertrand and De Boigne
exacted from the other side this written statement:--
"We, the undersigned, declare that in consequence of a disagreement,
Monsieur Dujarier has been challenged by Monsieur de Beauvallon in
terms which render it impossible for him to decline the encounter. We
have done everything possible to conciliate these gentlemen, and it is
only upon Monsieur de Beauvallon insisting that we have consented to
assist them."
This statement was signed by all four seconds. It left Dujarier, as the
injured party, the choice of arms. He chose the pistol, thinking, it is
to be presumed, that as his adversary was equally experienced in the use
of the rapier and firearms, chance might possibly favour him with the
latter.
Lola, while these negotiations were proceeding, was a prey to the most
painful apprehensions. Pressed by her, Dujarier admitted that he was about
to engage in an affair of honour, but gave her to understand that his
opponent would be Roger de Beauvoir. Her alarm at once subsided. No one
feared Roger. "You know I am a woman of courage," she said; "if the duel
is just, I will not prevent it."
"Oh, what after all is a duel!" said her lover lightly, but she noticed
that his smile was forced.
She drove to the Porte-St.-Martin; Dujarier, at three in the afternoon,
paid a visit to Alexandre Dumas. He picked up a sword that stood in a
corner of the room, and made a few passes. "You don't know how to wield
the sword, I can see," observed the novelist. "Can you use any other
weapon?"
"Well, I _must_ use the pistol," replied the journalist significantly.
"You mean you are going to fight?"
"Yes, to-morrow, with De Beauvallon."
Dumas looked grave. "Your adversary is a very good swordsman," he said.
"You had better choose swords. When De Beauvallon sees how you handle the
weapon, the duel will be at an end."
He told Dujarier that Alexandre, junior, practised at the same
fencing-class as De Beauvallon, and he strongly urged him to reconsider
the choice of weapons. But the journalist was obstinate. He had no
confidence in his opponent's clemency, and he feared his skill with the
rapier. With the pistol there was always a chance; with cold steel he was
bound to be killed. In vain Dumas argued that the sword could spare, while
the pistol could slay, even if the trigger were pulled by the least
experienced hand. Dujarier dined with father and son. The friends parted
at nine in the evening. The journalist, in company with Bertrand, went to
a shooting gallery, where he tried his hand at the pistol. He hit a figure
as large as a man only twice in twenty shots! Dumas strolled into the
Varietes. He was ill at ease. Finally he took a cab and drove to the Rue
Laffitte. He found Dujarier seated at his bureau, writing his will, as it
afterwards proved.
Dumas returned to the question of weapons. Dujarier showed a disposition
to avoid the whole subject. "You are only losing your time," he said, "and
that is valuable. I don't want you to arrange this affair, mind. It is my
first duel. It is astonishing that I have not had one before. It's a sort
of baptism that I must undergo."
His friend questioned him as to the cause of the proposed encounter. "Lord
knows!" was the reply, "I can recollect no particular reason. I don't know
what I am fighting about. It's a duel between the _Globe_ and _La
Presse_," he added, "not between Monsieur Dujarier and Monsieur de
Beauvallon."
Seeing him determined both to fight and to choose fire-arms, Dumas
recommended him at least not to use the hair-trigger pistol. To the
novelist's astonishment, Dujarier admitted he did not know the difference
between one kind of pistol and another. Alexandre said he would show him,
and drove off to his house for the purpose. As he descended the stairs, he
passed Lola, who noticed his agitation. Dujarier was again writing when
she entered his room. He was very pale. Dissimulating his preoccupation,
he invited his mistress to read a flattering notice on her performance
from the pen of Monsieur de Boigne. But Lola was not to be thus diverted
from her purpose. She implored her lover to tell her more about the
proposed encounter, to reveal the cause of his evident anxiety. He merely
replied that he was extremely busy, that there was nothing to worry about.
He insisted on her returning to her own apartments. "I'll come and see you
to-morrow," he promised, "and, Lola!--if--if I should leave Paris for any
reason, I don't want you to lose sight of my friends. Promise that. They
are good sorts."
He almost forced Lola out of the house, only to admit Dumas a few minutes
later. The novelist had brought a brand-new pair of pistols. "Use these,"
he said; "I'll give you a written statement that they have not been used
before. That ought to satisfy the seconds." Dujarier shook his head. "Look
here," said Dumas solemnly, "your luck has endured a long time. Take care
that it does not fail you now."
His friend's well-meant pertinacity irritated the journalist. He replied
brusquely: "What would you? Do you want me to pass for a coward? If I
don't accept this challenge, I shall have others. De Beauvallon is
determined to fasten a quarrel on me. One of his seconds told me so. He
said my face displeased him. However, this affair over, I shall be left in
peace."
It was one o'clock in the morning. Dumas, having exhausted all the
resources of argument and persuasion, rose to depart. "At least," he
counselled his friend, "don't fight till two in the afternoon. It is no
use getting up early for so unpleasant an affair. Besides, I know you.
You are always at your worst--nervous and fidgety--between ten and
eleven."
"You know that," said Dujarier eagerly, "you won't think it fear? And,
Dumas," ... he went to his desk, and wrote a cheque on Laffitte's for a
thousand crowns. "I owe you this. Now this is drawn on my private account,
and as the duel takes place at eleven, go there before eleven, for you
don't know what may happen. Go there _before eleven_, for after that my
credit may be dead. I beg of you, go before eleven."
The two friends wrung each other's hand, and Dumas, heavy at heart, went
downstairs. Dujarier was left to his thoughts. The reflections of a man
who is practically sure that he will be dead next day are quite peculiar.
The sensation is not fear in the ordinary acceptation of the term. It is
an effort to realise what no man ever can properly realise--that the world
around you, which in one (and a very true) sense has no existence except
as it is perceived by you, will, notwithstanding, be existing to-morrow
evening, while you will not exist. Intellectually you know this, but you
cannot realise it.
At such moments men turn with relief to the pen. With ink and paper you
can project yourself beyond your own grave. Dujarier signed his will,
which began with these words:--
"On the eve of fighting for the most absurd reasons, on the most
frivolous of pretexts, and without its being possible for my friends,
Arthur Bertrand and Charles de Boigne, to avoid an encounter, which
was provoked in terms that forced me on my honour to accept, I set
forth hereafter my last wishes...."
Then he wrote to his mother.
"MY GOOD MOTHER,--If this letter reaches you, it will be because I am
dead or dangerously wounded. I shall exchange shots to-morrow with
pistols. It is a necessity of my position, and I accept it as a man of
courage. If anything could have induced me to decline the challenge,
it would have been the grief which the blow would cause you, were I
struck. But the law of honour is imperative, and if you must weep,
dear mother, I would rather it be for a son worthy of you than for a
coward. Let this thought assuage your grief: my last thought will have
been of you. I shall go to the encounter to-morrow calm and sure of
myself. Right is on my side. I embrace you, dear mother, with all the
warmth of my heart.
"DUJARIER."
There was nothing more to be done or to be said. Only a few hours of the
night remained. The experienced duellist would have steadied his nerves by
as long a sleep as possible. But Dujarier regarded himself as doomed. He
mentally contrasted his miserable performances at the shooting gallery
with the wonderful things De Beauvallon was reported to have done with the
pistol in Cuba. The stories might be inventions. He tried to snatch a few
hours' sleep.[9]
XIV
THE DUEL
The morning of the 11th March dawned. The ground was white with snow.
Dujarier was taking his light French breakfast when Lola's maid brought
him a message. She wished to see him. He promised to come at once, and the
servant took her leave. Dujarier hastily scribbled these lines:--
"MY DEAR LOLA,--I am going out to fight a duel with pistols. This will
explain why I wished to pass the night alone, and why I have not gone
to see you this morning. I need all the composure at my command and
you would have excited in me too much emotion. I will be with you at
two o'clock, unless----Good-bye, my dear little Lola, the dear little
girl I love.
D."
It was seven o'clock. He told his servant to deliver the letter about
nine. He then rose and walked to De Boigne's house in the Rue Pinon. There
he found the four seconds in consultation. He saluted them, and thanked De
Boigne for his notice of Lola. The conditions of the encounter were then
signed and read. The combatants were to be placed at thirty paces
distance, and could make five forward before firing, but each was to step
after the other had fired. One was to fire immediately after the other. A
coin was spun to determine who should provide the pistols; but it was
understood that the weapons were not to have been used before by the
combatants. The coin decided in favour of De Beauvallon. D'Ecquevillez
then produced a pair of pistols, which he gave the other seconds to
understand were his personal property. He and De Flers then went in search
of their principal. Dujarier and his friends returned to the Rue Laffitte,
where they picked up the doctor, Monsieur de Guise, and drove off, all
four, to the Bois de Boulogne.
The rendezvous was a secluded spot near the Restaurant de Madrid. There
is, and probably was then, a _tir aux pigeons_ close by. The morning was
intensely cold, and no one was about. A few snowflakes were falling as the
party arrived. There was no sign of De Beauvallon and his seconds, though
it was now ten o'clock. The four men impatiently paced up and down,
Bertrand and De Boigne conversing in low tones as to the probable result
of the encounter, while Dujarier talked with the doctor on matters in
general. De Guise, however, could not refrain from questioning him as to
the cause of the affair. The journalist related the episodes at the Freres
Provencaux, from his own point of view, and said that D'Ecquevillez had
told him that De Beauvallon intended to fight him "because he did not like
him." "I naturally replied," continued Dujarier, "that many people might
not like me, and I could not be supposed on that account to fight them.
D'Ecquevillez retorted that his principal would force me to fight by a
blow and an insult. This threat was in itself an insult. I accepted the
challenge."
The doctor observed the journalist closely. He was shivering with the
cold, and the nervous excitement, which Dumas had remarked in him always
at this hour, was manifesting itself. The seconds drew near, and De Guise
gave it as his professional opinion that Dujarier was not in a condition
to fight. Bertrand and De Boigne joined their entreaties to his, and
argued that having waited an hour for the other party, they could in all
honour retire from the field. Dujarier refused to do any such thing.
Before all things, like most nervous men, he dreaded the imputation of
cowardice. The cold and the excitement made him tremble. His friends would
suspect him of fear; therefore, at all hazards, he must give them proof of
his courage.
Finding his persuasions futile, De Guise resigned himself to listen to a
long and minute account of the quarrel with De Beauvoir. The recital was
finished when the sound of carriage wheels was heard. Dujarier's heart
must have given a big leap! A shabby cab drove up and out of it jumped De
Beauvallon and his seconds. De Boigne accosted the Creole with some
asperity. He remarked that it was confoundedly cold, and that he and his
principal had been kept waiting for an hour and a half. D'Ecquevillez, who
seems to have done most of the talking throughout the whole affair, turned
to Bertrand, and explained that they had been delayed by the necessity of
purchasing ammunition and by the slowness of the cab horse.
De Boigne now addressed himself to De Beauvallon, and made a final effort
to arrange the dispute. "I speak to you," he said, "as one who has had
experience of these affairs. There is nothing to fight about. Your friends
have put it into your head that an insult was intended."
"Sir," replied De Beauvallon coldly, "you say there is no motive for this
duel. I think differently, since I am here with my seconds. You don't
suggest any other course. The position is the same as yesterday, when it
was settled that we should fight. Besides, an affair of this sort is not
to be arranged on the field."
De Boigne shrugged his shoulders. He had done his utmost for his friend.
He and De Flers selected the ground, and with the consent of the other, he
measured forty-three paces, diminishing the distance originally agreed to.
D'Ecquevillez, meanwhile, had produced his pistols, recognisable by their
blue barrels. Bertrand was about to charge one, when he introduced his
finger into the muzzle, and withdrew it, black to the depth of the
finger-nail. He looked at the other. "These pistols have been tried," he
said.
"On my honour," declared D'Ecquevillez, "we have only tried them with
powder. Monsieur de Beauvallon has never handled them before."
With this positive assurance Bertrand had to be content. The pistols were
again tried with caps. With grave misgivings, he and De Boigne placed
their man. De Beauvallon also took up position. Dujarier took his pistol
from his second so clumsily that he moved the trigger and nearly blew De
Boigne's head off.
The signal was given. Dujarier fired instantly. His ball flew wide of the
mark. He let drop his pistol, and faced his adversary.
De Beauvallon very deliberately raised his arms and covered his opponent.
The spectators held their breath. "Fire, damn you! fire!" cried De Boigne,
exasperated by his slowness. The Creole pulled the trigger. For an instant
Dujarier stood erect. The next, he fell, huddled up on to the ground. The
doctor rushed towards him. His practised eye told him that the wound was
mortal. The bullet had entered near the bridge of the nose, and broken the
occipital bone, so as to produce a concussion of the spine. De Guise
assured Dujarier the wound was not serious and told him to spit. He tried
in vain to do so. Bertrand summoned the carriage to approach. De Boigne
leant over his friend, and asked him if he suffered much pain. Dujarier,
already inarticulate, nodded; his eyelids dropped, and he fell back in the
physician's arms. He was dead.
D'Ecquevillez, seeing Dujarier fall, offered Bertrand his assistance. He
was rebuffed, told to gather up his pistols, and to go. He hurried off
with the other second and his principal, who murmured: "Mon Dieu! Mon
Dieu!" as he passed his late adversary. "How have I conducted myself?" he
asked his second.
"I hope I shall always act in similar circumstances as you did," was the
reassuring reply.
Meanwhile, Dumas had gone, full of anxiety, to the Rue Laffitte, to find
that his friend had left the house, with what object he guessed. He
noticed as a sinister omen that there was blood on the banister. He went
away, sad at heart, to await the result of the combat.