A MÊLÉE AND A DUEL
The rehearsal was over, and the comedians were preparing to return to
their hotel; de Sigognac, expecting some sort of an assault on his way
through the deserted streets, did not lay aside Matamore’s big sword
with the rest of his costume. It was an excellent Spanish blade, very
long, and with a large basket hilt, which made a perfect protection for
the hand—altogether a weapon which, wielded by a brave man, was by no
means to be despised, and which could give, as well as parry, good hard
thrusts. Though scarcely able to inflict a mortal wound, as the point
and edge had been blunted, according to the usual custom of theatrical
sword owners, it would be, however, all that was requisite to defend
its wearer against the cudgels of the ruffians that the Duke of
Vallombreuse had despatched to administer his promised punishment.
Hérode, who also anticipated an attack upon de Sigognac, and was not
one to desert a friend when danger threatened, took the precaution to
arm himself with the big heavy club that was used to give the
signal—three loud raps—for the rising of the curtain, which made a very
formidable weapon, and would do good service in his strong hands.
“Captain,” said he to the baron as they quitted the tennis-court, “we
will let the women go on a little way in advance of us, under the
escort of Blazius and Leander, one of whom is too old, the other too
cowardly, to be of any service to us in case of need. And we don’t want
to have their fair charges terrified, and deafening us with their
shrieks. Scapin shall accompany us, for he knows a clever trick or two
for tripping a man up, that I have seen him perform admirably in
several wrestling bouts. He will lay one or two of our assailants flat
on their backs for us before they can turn round. In any event here is
my good club, to supplement your good sword.”
“Thanks, my brave friend Hérode,” answered de Sigognac, “your kind
offer is not one to be refused; but let us take our precautions not to
be surprised, though we are in force. We will march along in single
file, through the very middle of the street, so that these rogues,
lurking in dark corners, will have to emerge from their hiding places
to come out to us, and we shall be able to see them before they can
strike us. I will draw my sword, you brandish your club, and Scapin
must cut a pigeon wing, so as to make sure that his legs are supple and
in good working order. Now, forward march!”
He put himself at the head of the little column, and advanced
cautiously into the narrow street that led from the tennis-court to the
hotel of the _Armes de France_, which was very crooked, badly paved,
devoid of lamps, and capitally well calculated for an ambuscade. The
overhanging gable-ends on either side of the way made the darkness in
the street below them still more dense—a most favourable circumstance
for the ruffians lying in wait there. Not a single ray of light
streamed forth from the shut-up house whose inmates were presumably all
sleeping soundly in their comfortable beds, and there was no moon that
night. Basque, Azolan, Labriche and Mérindol had been waiting more than
half an hour for Captain Fracasse in this street, which they knew he
was obliged to pass through in returning to his hotel. They had
disposed themselves in pairs on opposite sides of the way, so that when
he was between them their clubs could all play upon him together, like
the hammers of the Cyclops on their great anvil. The passing of the
group of women, escorted by Blazius and Leander, none of whom perceived
them, had warned them of the approach of their victim, and they stood
awaiting his appearance, firmly grasping their cudgels in readiness to
pounce upon him; little dreaming of the reception in store for them—for
ordinarily, indeed one may say invariably, the poets, actors,
_bourgeois_, and such-like, whom the nobles condescended to have
cudgeled by their hired ruffians, employed expressly for that purpose,
took their chastisement meekly, and without attempting to make any
resistance. Despite the extreme darkness of the night, the baron, with
his penetrating eyes, made out the forms of the four villains lying in
wait for him, at some distance, and before he came up with them stopped
and made as if he meant to turn back—which ruse deceived them
completely—and fearing that their prey was about to escape them, they
rushed impetuously forth from their hiding places towards him. Azolan
was the first, closely followed by the others, and all crying at the
tops of their voices, “Kill! Kill! this for Captain Fracasse, from the
Duke of Vallombreuse.” Meantime de Sigognac had wound his large cloak
several times round his left arm for a shield, and receiving upon it
the first blow from Azolan’s cudgel, returned it with such a violent
lunge, full in his antagonist’s breast, that the miserable fellow went
over backward, with great force, right into the gutter running down the
middle of the street, with his head in the mud and his heels in the
air. If the point of the sword had not been blunted, it would
infallibly have gone through his body, and come out between his
shoulder-blades, leaving a dead man, instead of only a stunned one, on
the ground. Basque, in spite of his comrade’s disaster, advanced to the
charge bravely, but a furious blow on his head, with the flat of the
blade, sent him down like a shot, and made him see scores of stars,
though there was not one visible in the sky that night. The tyrant’s
club encountering Mérindol’s cudgel broke it short off, and the latter
finding himself disarmed, took to his heels; not however without
receiving a tremendous blow on the shoulder before he could get out of
Hérode’s reach. Scapin, for his part, had seized Labriche suddenly
round the waist from behind, pinning down his arms so that he could not
use his club at all, and raising him from the ground quickly, with one
dexterous movement tripped him up, and sent him rolling on the pavement
ten paces off, so violently that he was knocked senseless—the back of
his neck coming in contact with a projecting stone—and lay apparently
lifeless where he fell.
So the way was cleared, and the victory in this fierce encounter was
honourably gained by our hero and his two companions over the four
sturdy ruffians, who had never been defeated before. They were in a
sorry plight—Azolan and Basque creeping stealthily away, on their hands
and knees, trying under cover of the darkness to put themselves beyond
the reach of further danger; Labriche lying motionless, like a drunken
man, across the gutter, and Mérindol, less badly hurt, flying towards
home as fast as his legs could carry him. As he drew near the house,
however, he slackened his pace, for he dreaded the duke’s anger more
than Hérode’s club, and almost forgot, for the moment, the terrible
agony from his dislocated shoulder, from which the arm hung down
helpless and inert. Scarcely had he entered the outer door ere he was
summoned to the presence of the duke, who was all impatient to learn
the details of the tremendous thrashing that, he took it for granted,
they had given to Captain Fracasse. When Mérindol was ushered in,
frightened and embarrassed, trembling in every limb, not knowing what
to say or do, and suffering fearfully from his injured shoulder, he
paused at the threshold, and stood speechless and motionless, waiting
breathlessly for a word or gesture of encouragement from the duke, who
glared at him in silence.
“Well,” at length said the Chevalier de Vidalinc to the discomfited
Mérindol, seeing that Vallombreuse only stared at him savagely and did
not seem inclined to speak, “what news do you bring us? Bad, I am sure,
for you have by no means a triumphant air—very much the reverse,
indeed, I should say.”
“My lord, the duke, of course cannot doubt our zeal in striving to
execute his orders, to the best of our ability,” said Mérindol,
cringingly, “but this time we have had very bad luck.”
“What do you mean by that?” asked the duke sharply, with an angry frown
and flashing eyes, before which the stout ruffian quailed. “There were
four of you! do you mean to tell me that, among you, you could not
succeed in thrashing this miserable play-actor?”
“That miserable play-actor, my lord,” Mérindol replied, plucking up a
little courage, “far exceeds in vigour and bravery the great Hercules
they tell us of. He fell upon us with such fury that in one instant he
had knocked Azolan and Basque down into the gutter. They fell under his
blows like pasteboard puppets—yet they are both strong men, and used to
hard knocks. Labriche was tripped up and cleverly thrown by another
actor, and fell with such force that he was completely stunned; the
back of his head has found out that the stones of Poitiers pavements
are harder than it is, poor fellow! As for me, my thick club was broken
short off by an immense stick in the hands of that giant they call
Hérode, and my shoulder so badly hurt that I sha’n’t have the use of my
arm here for a fortnight.”
“You are no better than so many calves, you pitiful, cowardly knaves!”
cried the Duke of Vallombreuse, in a perfect frenzy of rage. “Why, any
old woman could put you to rout with her distaff, and not half try. I
made a horrid mistake when I rescued you from the galleys and the
gallows, and took you into my service, believing that you were brave
rascals, and not afraid of anything or anybody on the face of the
globe. And now, answer me this: When you found that clubs would not do,
why didn’t you whip out your swords and have at him?”
“My lord had given us orders for a beating, not an assassination, and
we would not have dared to go beyond his commands.”
“Behold,” cried Vidalinc, laughing contemptuously, “behold a faithful,
exact and conscientious scoundrel whose obedience does not deviate so
much as a hair’s breadth from his lord’s commands. How delightful and
refreshing to find such purity and fidelity, combined with such rare
courage, in the character of a professional cut-throat! But now,
Vallombreuse, what do you think of all this? This chase of yours opens
well, and romantically, in a manner that must be immensely pleasing to
you, since you find the pursuit agreeable in proportion to its
difficulty, and the obstacles in the way constitute its greatest charms
for you. I ought to congratulate you, it seems to me. This Isabelle,
for an actress, is not easy of access; she dwells in a fortress,
without drawbridge or other means of entrance, and guarded, as we read
of in the history of ancient chivalry, by dragons breathing out flames
of fire and smoke. But here comes our routed army.”
Azolan, Basque, and Labriche, who had recovered from his swoon, now
presented themselves reluctantly at the door, and stood extending their
hands supplicatingly towards their master. They were a
miserable-looking set of wretches enough—very pale, fairly livid
indeed, haggard, dirty and blood-stained; for although they had only
contused wounds, the force of the blows had set the blood flowing from
their noses, and great red stains disfigured their hideous
countenances.
“Get to your kennel, ye hounds!” cried the duke, in a terrible voice,
being moved only to anger by the sight of this forlorn group of
supplicants. “I’m sure I don’t know why I have not ordered you all
soundly thrashed for your imbecility and cowardice. I shall send you my
surgeon to examine your wounds, and see whether the thumps you make
such a babyish outcry about really were as violent and overpowering as
you represent. If they were not, I will have you skinned alive, every
mother’s son of you, like the eels at Melun; and now, begone! out of my
sight, quick, you vile _canaille!_” The discomfited ruffians turned and
fled, thankful to make their escape, and forgetful for the moment of
their painful wounds and bruises; such abject terror did the young
duke’s anger inspire in the breasts of those hardened villains. When
the poor devils had disappeared, Vallombreuse threw himself down on a
heap of cushions, piled up on a low, broad divan beside the fire, and
fell into a revery that Vidalinc was careful not to break in upon. They
evidently were not pleasant thoughts that occupied him; dark,
tempestuous ones rather, judging by the expression of his handsome
face, as he lay back idly among the soft pillows, looking very
picturesque in the rich showy costume he still wore. He did not remain
there long. Only a short time had elapsed when he suddenly started up,
with a smothered imprecation, and bidding his friend an abrupt
good-night, retired to his own chamber, without touching the dainty
little supper that had just been brought in. Vidalinc sat down and
enjoyed it by himself, with perfect good humour, thinking meanwhile of
Serafina’s remarkable beauty and amiability, with which he was highly
charmed, and not neglecting to drink her health in the duke’s choice
wine ere he quitted the table, and, following his example, retired to
his own room, where he slept soundly, dreaming of Serafina, until
morning; while Vallombreuse, less fortunate, and still haunted by
disturbing thoughts, tossed restlessly, and turned from side to side,
courting sleep in vain, under the rich silken hangings drawn round his
luxurious bed.
When de Sigognac, the tyrant and Scapin reached the _Armes de France_,
after having overcome the serious obstacles in their way, they found
the others in a terrible state of alarm about them. In the stillness of
the night they had distinctly heard the loud cries of the duke’s
ruffians, and the noise of the fierce combat, and feared that their
poor friends were being murdered. Isabelle, nearly frantic in her
terror lest her lover should be overpowered and slain, tried to rush
back to him, never remembering that she would be more of a hindrance
than a help; but at the first step she had again almost fainted away,
and would have fallen upon the rough pavement but for Blazius and
Zerbine, who, each taking an arm, supported her between them the rest
of the way to the hotel When they reached it at last, she refused to go
to her own room, but waited with the others at the outer door for news
of their comrades, fearing the worst, yet prayerfully striving to hope
for the best. At sight of de Sigognac—who, alarmed at her extreme
pallor, hastened anxiously to her side—she impetuously raised her arms
to heaven, as a low cry of thanksgiving escaped her lips, and letting
them fall around his neck, for one moment hid her streaming eyes
against his shoulder; but quickly regaining her self-control, she
withdrew herself gently from the detaining arm that had fondly
encircled her slender, yielding form, and stepping back from him a
little, resumed with a strong effort her usual reserve and quiet
dignity.
“And you are not wounded or hurt?” she asked, in her sweetest tones,
her face glowing with happiness as she caught his reassuring gesture;
he could not speak yet for emotion. The clasp of her arms round his
neck had been like a glimpse of heaven to him a moment of divine
ecstasy. “Ah! if he could only snatch her to his breast and hold her
there forever,” he was thinking, “close to the heart that beat for her
alone,” as she continued: “If the slightest harm had befallen you,
because of me, I should have died of grief. But, oh! how imprudent you
were, to defy that handsome, wicked duke, who has the assurance and the
pride of Lucifer himself, for the sake of a poor, insignificant girl
like me. You were not reasonable, de Sigognac! Now that you are a
comedian, like the rest of us, you must learn to put up with certain
impertinences and annoyances, without attempting to resent them.”
“I never will,” said de Sigognac, finding his voice at last, “I swear
it, I never will permit an affront to be offered to the adorable
Isabelle in my presence even when I have on my player’s mask.”
“Well spoken, captain,” cried Hérode, “well spoken, and bravely. I
would not like to be the man to incur your wrath. By the powers above!
what a fierce reception you gave those rascals yonder. It was lucky for
them that poor Matamore’s sword had no edge. If it had been sharp and
pointed, you would have cleft them from head to heels, clean in two, as
the ancient knight-errants did the Saracens, and wicked enchanters.”
“Your club did as much execution as my sword, Hérode, and your
conscience need not reproach you, for they were not innocents that you
slaughtered this time.”
“No, indeed!” the tyrant rejoined, with a mighty laugh, “the flower of
the galleys these—the cream of gallows-birds.”
“Such jobs would scarcely be undertaken by any other class of fellows
you know,” de Sigognac said; “but we must not neglect to make Scapin’s
valiant deeds known, and praise them as they deserve. He fought and
conquered without the aid of any other arms than those that nature gave
him.”
Scapin, who was a natural buffoon, acknowledged this encomium with a
very low obeisance—his eyes cast down, his hand on his heart—and with
such an irresistibly comical affectation of modesty and embarrassment
that they all burst into a hearty laugh, which did them much good after
the intense excitement and alarm.
After this, as it was late, the comedians bade each other good-night,
and retired to their respective rooms; excepting de Sigognac, who
remained for a while in the court, walking slowly back and forth,
cogitating deeply. The actor was avenged, but the gentleman was not.
Must he then throw aside the mask that concealed his identity, proclaim
his real name, make a commotion, and run the risk of drawing down upon
his comrades the anger of a powerful nobleman? Prudence said no, but
honour said yes. The baron could not resist its imperious voice, and
the moment that he decided to obey it he directed his steps towards
Zerbine’s room.
He knocked gently at the door, which was opened cautiously, a very
little way at first, by a servant, who instantly admitted the
unexpected guest when he saw who it was.
The large room was brilliantly lighted, with many rose-coloured wax
candles in two handsome candelabra on a table covered with fine damask,
on which smoked a dainty supper. Game and various other delicacies were
there, most temptingly served. One crystal decanter, with sprigs of
gold scattered over its shining surface, was filled with wine rivalling
the ruby in depth and brilliancy of hue, while that in the other was
clear and yellow as a topaz. Only two places had been laid on this
festive board, and opposite Zerbine sat the Marquis de Bruyères, of
whom de Sigognac was in search. The _soubrette_ welcomed him warmly,
with a graceful mingling of the actress’s familiarity with her comrade
with her respect for the gentleman.
“It is very charming of you to come and join us here, in our cosy
little nest,” said the marquis to de Sigognac, with much cordiality,
“and we are right glad to welcome you. Jacques, lay a place for this
gentleman—you will sup with us?”
“I will accept your kind invitation,” de Sigognac replied; “but not for
the sake of the supper. I do not wish to interfere with your enjoyment,
and nothing is so disagreeable for those at table as a looker-on who is
not eating with them.”
The baron accordingly sat down in the arm-chair rolled up for him by
the servant, beside Zerbine and opposite the marquis, who helped him to
some of the partridge he had been carving, and filled his wine-glass
for him; all without asking any questions as to what brought him there,
or even hinting at it. But he felt sure that it must be something of
importance that had caused the usually reserved and retiring young
nobleman to take such a step as this.
“Do you like this red wine best or the other?” asked the marquis. “As
for me, I drink some of both, so that there may be no jealous feeling
between them.”
“I prefer the red wine, thank you,” de Sigognac said, with a smile,
“and will add a little water to it. I am very temperate by nature and
habit, and mingle a certain devotion to the nymphs with my worship at
the shrine of Bacchus, as the ancients had it. But it was not for
feasting and drinking that I was guilty of the indiscretion of
intruding upon you at this unseemly hour. Marquis, I have come to ask
of you a service that one gentleman never refuses to another. Mlle.
Zerbine has probably related to you something of what took place in the
green-room this evening. The Duke of Vallombreuse made an attempt to
lay hands upon Isabelle, under pretext of placing an _mouche_ for her,
and was guilty of an insolent, outrageous, and brutal action, unworthy
of a gentleman, which was not justified by any coquetry or advances on
the part of that young girl, who is as pure as she is modest and for
whom I feel the highest respect and esteem.”
“And she deserves it,” said Zerbine heartily, “every word you say of
her, as I, who know her thoroughly, can testify. I could not say
anything but good of her, even if I would.”
“I seized the duke’s arm, and stopped him before he had succeeded in
what he meant to do,” continued de Sigognac, after a grateful glance at
the _soubrette;_ “he was furiously angry, and assailed me with threats
and invectives, to which I replied with a mocking _sang-froid_, from
behind my stage mask. He declared he would have me thrashed by his
lackeys, and in effect, as I was coming back to this house, a little
while ago, four ruffians fell upon me in the dark, narrow street. A
couple of blows with the flat of my sword did for two of the rascals,
while Hérode and Scapin put the other two hors-de-combat in fine style.
Although the duke imagined that only a poor actor was concerned, yet as
there is also a gentleman in that actor’s skin, such an outrage cannot
be committed with impunity. _You_ know me, marquis, though up to the
present moment you have kindly and delicately respected my incognito,
for which I thank you. You know who and what my ancestors were, and can
certify that the family of de Sigognac has been noble for more than a
thousand years, and that not one who has borne the name has ever had a
blot on his scutcheon.”
“Baron de Sigognac,” said the marquis, addressing him for the first
time by his own name, “I will bear witness, upon my honour, before
whomsoever you may choose to name, to the antiquity and nobility of
your family. Palamède de Sigognac distinguished himself by wonderful
deeds of valour in the first crusade, to which he led a hundred lances,
equipped, and transported thither, at his own expense. That was at an
epoch when the ancestors of some of the proudest nobles of France
to-day were not even squires. He and Hugues de Bruyères, my own
ancestor, were warm friends, and slept in the same tent as brothers in
arms.”
At these glorious reminiscences de Sigognac raised his head proudly,
and held it high; he felt the pure blood of his ancestors throbbing in
his veins, and his heart beat tumultuously. Zerbine, who was watching
him, was surprised at the strange inward beauty—if the expression may
be allowed—that seemed to shine through the young baron’s ordinarily
sad countenance, and illuminate it. “These nobles,” she said to
herself, “are certainly a race by themselves; they look as if they had
sprung from the side of Jupiter, not been born into the world like
ordinary mortals. At the least word their pride is up in arms, and
transforms them, as it does the Baron de Sigognac now. If he should
make love to me, with eyes like those, I simply could not resist him; I
should have to throw over my marquis. Why, he fairly glows with
heroism; he is god-like.”
Meantime de Sigognac, in blissful ignorance of this ardent admiration,
which would have been so distasteful to him, was saying to the marquis,
“Such being your opinion of my family, you will not, I fancy, object to
carry a challenge from me to the Duke of Vallombreuse.”
“Assuredly I will do it for you,” answered the marquis, in a grave,
measured way, widely different from his habitual good-natured, easy
carelessness of manner and speech; “and, moreover, I offer my own
services as your second. To-morrow morning I will present myself at the
duke’s house in your behalf; there is one thing to be said in his
favour—that although he may be, in fact is, very insolent, he is no
coward, and he will no longer intrench himself behind his dignity when
he is made acquainted with your real rank. But enough of this subject
for the present; I will see you to-morrow morning in good season, and
we will not weary poor Zerbine any longer with our man’s talk of
affairs of honour. I can plainly see that she is doing her best to
suppress a yawn, and we would a great deal rather that a smile should
part her pretty red lips, and disclose to us the rows of pearls within.
Come, Zerbine, fill the Baron de Sigognac’s glass, and let us be merry
again.”
The _soubrette_ obeyed, and with as much grace and dexterity as if she
had been Hebe in person; everything that she attempted to do she did
well, this clever little actress.
The conversation became animated, and did not touch upon any other
grave subject, but was mainly about Zerbine’s own acting—the marquis
overwhelming her with compliments upon it, in which de Sigognac could
truthfully and sincerely join him, for the _soubrette_ had really shown
incomparable spirit, grace, and talent. They also talked of the
productions of M. de Scudéry—who was one of the most brilliant writers
of the day—which the marquis declared that he considered perfect, but
slightly soporific; adding that he, for his part, decidedly preferred
the Rodomontades of Captain Fracasse to Lygdamon et Lydias—he was a
gentleman of taste, the marquis!
As soon as he could do so without an actual breach of politeness, de
Sigognac took his leave, and retiring to his own chamber locked himself
in; then took an ancient sword out of the woollen case in which he kept
it to preserve it from rust—his father’s sword—which he had brought
with him from home, as a faithful friend and ally. He drew it slowly
out of the scabbard, kissing the hilt with fervent affection and
respect as he did so, for to him it was sacred. It was a handsome
weapon, richly, but not too profusely, ornamented—a sword for service,
not for show; its blade of bluish steel, upon which a few delicate
lines of gold were traced, bore the well-known mark of one of the most
celebrated armourers of Toledo. The young baron examined the edge
critically, drawing his fingers lightly over it, and then, resting the
point against the door, bent it nearly double to test its elasticity.
The noble blade stood the trial right valiantly, and there was no fear
of its betraying its master in the hour of need. Delighted to have it
in his hand again, and excited by the thought of what was in store for
it and himself, de Sigognac began to fence vigorously against the wall,
and to practise the various thrusts and passes that his faithful old
Pierre, who was a famous swordsman, had taught him at Castle Misery.
They had been in the habit of spending hours every day in these
lessons, glad of some active occupation, and the exercise had developed
the young baron’s frame, strengthened his muscles, and greatly
augmented his natural suppleness and agility. He was passionately fond
of and had thoroughly studied the noble art of fencing, and, while he
believed himself to be still only a scholar, had long been a master in
it—a proficient, such as is rarely to be found, even in the great
cities. A better instructor than old Pierre he could not have had—not
in Paris itself—and buried though he had been in the depths of the
country, entirely isolated, and deprived of all the usual advantages
enjoyed by young men of his rank, he yet had become, though perfectly
unconscious of it, a match for the most celebrated swordsmen in
France—that is to say, in the world—able to measure blades with the
best of them. He may not have had all the elegant finish, and the many
little airs and graces affected by the young sprigs of nobility and
polished men of fashion in their sword-play, but skilful indeed must be
the blade that could penetrate within the narrow circle of flashing
steel in which he intrenched himself. Finding, after a long combat with
an imaginary foe, that his hand had not lost its cunning, and satisfied
at length both with himself and with his sword, which he placed near
his bedside, de Sigognac was soon sleeping soundly, and as quietly as
if he had never even dreamed of sending a challenge to that lofty and
puissant nobleman, the Duke of Vallombreuse.
Isabelle meanwhile could not close her eyes, because of her anxiety
about the young baron. She knew that he would not allow the matter to
rest where it was, and she dreaded inexpressibly the consequences of a
quarrel with the duke; but the idea of endeavouring to prevent a duel
never even occurred to her. In those days affairs of honour were
regarded as sacred things, that women did not dream of interfering
with, or rendering more trying to their near and dear ones by tears and
lamentations, in anticipation of the danger to be incurred by them.
At nine o’clock the next morning, the Marquis de Bruyères was astir,
and went to look up de Sigognac, whom he found in his own room, in
order to regulate with him the conditions of the duel. The baron asked
him to take with him, in case of incredulity, or refusal of his
challenge, on the duke’s part, the old deeds and ancient parchments, to
which large seals were suspended, the commissions of various sorts with
royal signatures in faded ink, the genealogical tree of the de
Sigognacs, and in fact all his credentials, which he had brought away
from the château with him as his most precious treasures; for they were
indisputable witnesses to the nobility and antiquity of his house.
These valuable documents, with their strange old Gothic characters,
scarcely decipherable save by experts, were carefully wrapped up in a
piece of faded crimson silk, which looked as if it might have been part
of the very banner borne by Palamède de Sigognac at the head of his
hundred followers in the first crusade.
“I do not believe,” said the marquis, “that these credentials will be
necessary; my word should be sufficient; it has never yet been doubted.
However, as it is possible that this hot-headed young duke may persist
in recognising only Captain Fracasse in your person, I will let my
servant accompany me and carry them for me to his house, in case I
should deem it best to produce them.”
“You must do whatever you think proper and right,” de Sigognac
answered; “I have implicit confidence in your judgment, and leave my
honour in your hands, without a condition or reservation.”
“It will be safe with me, I do solemnly assure you,” said the Marquis
de Bruyères earnestly, “and we will have satisfaction yet from this
proud young nobleman, whose excessive insolence and outrageously
imperious ways are more than a little offensive to me, as well as to
many others. He is no better than the rest of us, whose blood is as
ancient and noble as his own, nor does his ducal coronet entitle him to
the superiority he arrogates to himself so disagreeably. But we won’t
talk any more about it—we must act now. Words are feminine, but actions
are masculine, and offended honour can only be appeased with blood, as
the old saying has it.”
Whereupon the marquis called his servant, consigned the precious
packet, with an admonition, to his care, and followed by him set off on
his mission of defiance. The duke, who had passed a restless, wakeful
night, and only fallen asleep towards morning, was not yet up when the
Marquis de Bruyères, upon reaching his house, told the servant who
admitted him to announce him immediately to his master. The valet was
aghast at the enormity of this demand, which was expressed in rather a
peremptory tone. What! disturb the duke! before he had called for him!
it would be as much as his life was worth to do it; he would as soon
venture unarmed into the cage of a furious lion, or the den of a royal
tiger. The duke was always more or less surly and ill-tempered on first
waking in the morning, even when he had gone to bed in a good humour,
as his servants knew to their cost.
“Your lordship had much better wait a little while, or call again later
in the day,” said the valet persuasively, in answer to the marquis. “My
lord, the duke, has not summoned me yet, and I would not dare—”
“Go this instant to your master and announce the Marquis de Bruyères,”
interrupted that gentleman, in loud, angry tones, “or I will force the
door and admit myself to his presence. I _must_ speak to him, and that
at once, on important business, in which your master’s honour is
involved.”
“Ah! that makes a difference,” said the servant, promptly, “why didn’t
your lordship mention it in the first place? I will go and tell my
lord, the duke, forthwith; he went to bed in such a furious,
blood-thirsty mood last night that I am sure he will be enchanted at
the prospect of a duel this morning—delighted to have a pretext for
fighting.”
And the man went off with a resolute air, after respectfully begging
the marquis to be good enough to wait a few minutes. At the noise he
made in opening the door of his master’s bedroom, though he endeavoured
to do it as softly as possible, Vallombreuse, who was only dozing,
started up in bed, broad awake, and looked round fiercely for something
to throw at his head.
“What the devil do you mean by this?” he cried savagely. “Haven’t I
ordered you never to come in here until I called for you? You shall
have a hundred lashes for this, you scoundrel, I promise you; and you
needn’t whine and beg for mercy either, for you’ll get none from me.
I’d like to know how I am to go to sleep again now?”
“My lord may have his faithful servant lashed to death, if it so please
his lordship,” answered the valet, with abject respect, “but though I
have dared to transgress my lord’s orders, it is not without a good
reason. His lordship, the Marquis de Bruyères, is below, asking to
speak with my lord, the duke, on important business, relating to an
affair of honour, and I know that my lord never denies himself to any
gentleman on such occasions, but always receives visits of that sort,
at any time of day or night.”
“The Marquis de Bruyères!” said the duke, surprised, “have I any
quarrel with him? I don’t recollect a difference between us ever; and
besides, it’s an age since I’ve seen him. Perhaps he imagines that I
want to steal his dear Zerbine’s heart away from him; lovers are always
fancying that everybody else is enamoured of their own particular
favourites. Here, Picard, give me my dressing-gown, and draw those
curtains round the bed, so as to hide its disorder; make haste about
it, do you hear? we must not keep the worthy marquis waiting another
minute.”
Picard bustled about, and brought to his master a magnificent
dressing-gown-made, after the Venetian fashion, of rich stuff, with
arabesques of black velvet on a gold ground—which he slipped on, and
tied round the waist with a superb cord and tassels; then, seating
himself in an easychair, told Picard to admit his early visitor.
“Good morning, my dear marquis,” said the young duke smilingly, half
rising to salute his guest as he entered. “I am very glad to see you,
whatever your errand may be. Picard, a chair for his lordship! Excuse
me, I pray you, for receiving you so unceremoniously here in my
bedroom, which is still in disorder, and do not look upon it as a lack
of civility, but rather as a mark of my regard for you. Picard said
that you wished to see me immediately.”
“I must beg you to pardon _me_, my dear duke,” the marquis hastened to
reply, “for insisting so strenuously upon disturbing your repose, and
cutting short perhaps some delicious dream; but I am charged to see you
upon a mission, which, among gentlemen, will not brook delay.”
“You excite my curiosity to the highest degree,” said Vallombreuse,
“and I cannot even imagine what this urgent business may be about.”
“I suppose it is not unlikely, my lord,” rejoined the marquis, “that
you have forgotten certain occurrences that took place last evening.
Such trifling matters are not apt to make a very deep impression, so
with your permission I will recall them to your mind. In the so-called
green-room, down at the tennis-court, you deigned to honour with your
particular notice a young person, Isabelle by name, and with a
playfulness that I, for my part, do not consider criminal, you
endeavoured to place an _assassine_ for her, just above her white
bosom, complimenting her upon its fairness as you did so. This
proceeding, which I do not criticise, greatly shocked and incensed a
certain actor standing by, called Captain Fracasse, who rushed forward
and seized your arm.”
“Marquis, you are the most faithful and conscientious of
historiographers,” interrupted Vallombreuse. “That is all true, every
word of it, and to finish the narrative I will add that I promised the
rascal, who was as insolent as a noble, a sound thrashing at the hands
of my lackeys; the most appropriate chastisement I could think of, for
a low fellow of that sort.”
“No one can blame you for that, my dear duke, for there is certainly no
very great harm in having a play-actor—or writer either, for that
matter—thoroughly thrashed, if he has had the presumption to offend,”
said the marquis, with a contemptuous shrug; “such cattle are not worth
the value of the sticks broken over their backs. But this is a
different case altogether. Under the mask of Captain Fracasse—who, by
the way, routed your ruffians in superb style—is the Baron de Sigognac;
a nobleman of the old school, the head of one of the best families we
have in Gascony; one that has been above reproach for many centuries.”
“What the devil is he doing in this troupe of strolling players, pray?”
asked the Duke of Vallombreuse, with some heat, toying nervously with
the cord and tassels of his dressing-gown as he spoke. “Could I be
expected to divine that there was a de Sigognac hidden under that
grotesque costume, and behind that absurd false nose?”
“As to your first question,” the marquis replied, “I can answer it in
one word—Isabelle. Between ourselves, I believe that the young baron is
desperately in love with her. Indeed, he makes no secret of that fact;
and, not having been able to induce her to remain with him in his
château, he has joined the troupe of which she is a member, in order to
pursue his love affair. You certainly ought not to find this gallant
proceeding in bad taste, since you also admire the fair object of his
pursuit.”
“No; I admit all that you say. But you, in your turn, must acknowledge
that I could not be cognisant of this extraordinary romance by
inspiration, and that the action of Captain Fracasse was impertinent.”
“Impertinent for an actor, I grant you,” said the marquis, “but
perfectly natural, indeed inevitable, for a gentleman, resenting
unauthorized attentions to his mistress, and angry at an affront
offered to her. Now Captain Fracasse throws aside his mask, and as
Baron de Sigognac sends you by me his challenge to fight a duel, and
demands redress in that way for the insult you have offered him.”
“But who is to guarantee me that this pretended Baron de Sigognac, who
actually appears on the stage before the public with a company of low
buffoons as one of themselves, is not a vulgar, intriguing rascal,
usurping an honourable name, in the hope of obtaining the honour of
crossing swords with the Duke of Vallombreuse?”
“Duke,” said the Marquis de Bruyères, with much dignity, and some
severity of tone, “_I_ would not serve as second to any man who was not
of noble birth, and of honourable character. I know the Baron de
Sigognac well. His château is only a few leagues from my estate. _I_
will be his guarantee. Besides, if you still persist in entertaining
any doubts with regard to his real rank, I have here with me all the
proofs necessary to convince you of his right to the ancient and
distinguished name of Sigognac. Will you permit me to call in my
servant, who is waiting in the antechamber? He will give you all those
documents, for which I am personally responsible.”
“There is no need,” Vallombreuse replied courteously; “your word is
sufficient. I accept his challenge. My friend, the Chevalier de
Vidalinc, who is my guest at present, will be my second; will you be
good enough to consult with him as to the necessary arrangements? I
will agree to anything you may propose—fight him when and where you
please, and with any weapons he likes best; though I will confess that
I should like to see whether the Baron de Sigognac can defend himself
against a gentleman’s sword as successfully as Captain Fracasse did
against my lackeys’ cudgels. The charming Isabelle shall crown the
conqueror in this tournament, as the fair ladies crowned the victorious
knights in the grand old days of chivalry. But now allow me to retire
and finish my toilet. The Chevalier de Vidalinc will be with you
directly. I kiss your hand, valiant marquis, as our Spanish neighbours
say.”
With these courteous words the Duke of Vallombreuse bowed with studied
deference and politeness to his noble guest, and lifting the heavy
_portière_ of tapestry that hung over the door opening into his
dressing-room, passed through it and vanished. But a very few moments
had elapsed when the Chevalier de Vidalinc joined the marquis, and they
lost no time in coming to an understanding as to the conditions of the
duel. As a matter of course, they selected swords—the gentleman’s
natural weapon—and the meeting was fixed for the following morning,
early; as de Sigognac, with his wonted consideration for his humble
comrades, did not wish to fight that same day, and run the risk of
interfering with the programme Hérode had announced for the evening, in
case of his being killed or wounded. The rendezvous was at a certain
spot in a field outside the walls of the town, which was level, smooth,
well sheltered from observation, and advantageous in every way—being
the favourite place of resort for such hostile meetings among the
duellists of Poitiers.
The Marquis de Bruyères returned straightway to the _Armes de France_,
and rendered an account of the success of his mission to de Sigognac;
who thanked him warmly for his services, and felt greatly relieved, now
that he was assured of having the opportunity to resent, as a gentleman
should do, the affront offered to his adored Isabelle.
The representation was to begin very early that evening, and all day
the town crier went about through the streets, beating his drum
lustily, and, whenever he had gathered a curious crowd around him,
stopping and announcing the “great attractions—offered for that evening
by Hérode’s celebrated troupe.” Immense placards were posted upon the
walls of the tennis-court and at the entrance of the _Armes de France_,
also announcing, in huge, bright-coloured capitals, which reflected
great credit on Scapin, who was the calligraphist of the troupe, the
new play of “Lygdamon et Lydias,” and the Rodomontades of Captain
Fracasse. Long before the hour designated an eager crowd had assembled
in the street in front of the theatre, and when the doors were opened
poured in, like a torrent that has burst its bounds, and threatened to
sweep everything before them. Order was quickly restored, however,
within, and “the nobility and gentry of Poitiers” soon began to arrive
in rapid succession. Titled dames, in their sedan chairs, carried by
liveried servants, alighted amid much bowing and flourishing of
attendant gallants. Gentlemen from the environs came riding in,
followed by mounted grooms who led away their masters’ horses or mules.
Grand, clumsy old carriages, vast and roomy, with much tarnished
gildings and many faded decorations about them, and with coats-of-arms
emblazoned on their panels, rolled slowly up, and out of them, as out
of Noah’s ark, issued all sorts of odd-looking pairs, and curious
specimens of provincial grandeur; most of them resplendent in the
strange fashions of a bygone day, yet apparently well satisfied with
the elegance of their appearance. The house was literally packed, until
there was not room left for another human being, be he never so
slender. On each side of the stage was a row of arm-chairs, intended
for distinguished spectators, according to the custom of the times, and
there sat the young Duke of Vallombreuse, looking exceedingly handsome,
in a very becoming suit of black velvet, elaborately trimmed with jet,
and with a great deal of exquisite lace about it. Beside him was his
faithful friend, the Chevalier de Vidalinc, who wore a superb costume
of dark green satin, richly ornamented with gold. As to the Marquis de
Bruyères, he had not claimed his seat among the notables, but was
snugly ensconced in his usual place—a retired corner near the
orchestra—whence he could applaud his charming Zerbine to his heart’s
content, without making himself too conspicuous. In the boxes were the
fine ladies, in full dress, settling themselves to their satisfaction
with much rustling of silks, fluttering of fans, whispering and
laughing. Although their finery was rather old-fashioned, the general
effect was exceedingly brilliant, and the display of magnificent
jewels—family heirlooms—was fairly dazzling. Such flashing of superb
diamonds on white bosoms and in dark tresses; such strings of large,
lustrous pearls round fair necks, and twined amid sunny curls; such
rubies and sapphires, with their radiant surroundings of brilliants;
such thick, heavy chains of virgin gold, of curious and beautiful
workmanship; such priceless laces, yellow with age, of just that
much-desired tint which is creamy at night; such superb old brocades,
stiff and rich enough to stand alone; and best of all, such sweet,
sparkling, young faces, as were to be seen here and there in this
aristocratic circle. A few of the ladies, not wishing to be known had
kept on their little black velvet masks, though they did not prevent
their being recognised, spoken of by name, and commented on with great
freedom by the plebeian crowd in the pit. One lady, however, who was
very carefully masked, and attended only by a maid, baffled the
curiosity of all observers. She sat a little back in her box, so that
the full blaze of light should not fall upon her, and a large black
lace veil, which was loosely fastened under her chin, covered her head
so effectually that it was impossible to make out even the colour of
her hair. Her dress was rich and elegant in the extreme, but sombre in
hue, and in her hand she held a handsome fan made of black feathers,
with a tiny looking-glass in the centre. A great many curious glances
were directed at her, which manifestly made her uneasy, and she shrank
still farther back in her box to avoid them; but the orchestra soon
struck up a merry tune, and attracted all eyes and thoughts to the
curtain, which was about to rise, so that the mysterious fair one was
left to her enjoyment of the animated scene in peace. They began with
“Lygdamon et Lydias,” in which Leander, who played the principal part,
and wore a most becoming new costume, was quite overwhelmingly
handsome. His appearance was greeted by a murmur of admiration and a
great whispering among the ladies, while one unsophisticated young
creature, just emancipated from her convent-school, exclaimed
rapturously, aloud, “Oh! how charming he is!” for which shocking
indiscretion she received a severe reprimand from her horrified mama,
that made her retire into the darkest corner of the box, covered with
blushes and confusion. Yet the poor girl had only innocently given
expression to the secret thought of every woman in the audience, her
own dignified mother included; for, really, Leander was delightfully,
irresistibly handsome as Lygdamon—a perfect Apollo, in the eyes of
those provincial dames. But by far the most agitated of them all was
the masked beauty; whose heaving bosom, trembling hand—betrayed by the
fan it held—and eager attitude—leaning breathlessly forward and
intently watching Leander’s every movement—would inevitably have borne
witness to her great and absorbing interest in him, if anybody had been
observing her to mark her emotion; but fortunately for her all eyes
were turned upon the stage, so she had time to recover her composure.
Leander was surpassing himself in his acting that night, yet even then
he did not neglect to gaze searchingly round the circle of his fair
admirers, trying to select the titled dames, and decide which one among
them he should favour with his most languishing glances. As he
scrutinized one after another, his eyes finally reached the masked
lady, and at once his curiosity was on the _qui vive_—here was
assuredly something promising at last; he was convinced that the richly
dressed, graceful _incognita_ was a victim to his own irresistible
charms, and he directed a long, eloquent, passionate look full at her,
to indicate that she was understood. To his delight—his rapturous,
ecstatic delight—she answered his appealing glance by a very slight
bend of the head, which was full of significance, as if she would thank
him for his penetration. Being thus happily brought _en rapport_,
frequent glances were exchanged throughout the play, and even little
signals also, between the hero on the stage and the lady in her box.
Leander was an adept in that sort of thing, and could so modulate his
voice and use his really fine eyes in making an impassioned declaration
of love to the heroine of the play, that the fair object of his
admiration in the audience would believe that it was addressed
exclusively to herself. Inspired by this new flame, he acted with so
much spirit and animation that he was rewarded with round after round
of applause; which he had the art to make the masked lady understand he
valued less than the faintest mark of approbation and favour from her.
After “Lygdamon et Lydias” came the Rodomontades of Captain Fracasse,
which met with its accustomed success. Isabelle was rendered very
uneasy by the close proximity of the Duke of Vallombreuse, dreading
some act of insolence on his part; but her fears were needless, for he
studiously refrained from annoying her in any way—even by staring at
her too fixedly. He was moderate in his applause, and quietly
attentive, as he sat in a careless attitude in his arm-chair on the
stage throughout the piece. His lip curled scornfully sometimes when
Captain Fracasse was receiving the shower of blows and abuse that fell
to his share, and his whole countenance was expressive of the most
lofty disdain, but that was all; for though violent and impetuous by
nature, the young duke was too much of a gentleman—once his first fury
passed—to transgress the rules of courtesy in any way; and more
especially towards an adversary with whom he was to fight on the
morrow—until then hostilities were suspended, and he religiously
observed the truce.
The masked lady quietly withdrew a little before the end of the second
piece, in order to avoid mingling with the crowd, and also to be able
to regain her chair, which awaited her close at hand, unobserved; her
disappearance mightily disturbed Leander, who was furtively watching
the movements of the mysterious unknown. The moment he was free, almost
before the curtain had fallen, he threw a large cloak around him to
conceal his theatrical costume, and rushed towards the outer door in
pursuit of her. The slender thread that bound them together would be
broken past mending he feared if he did not find her, and it would be
too horrible to lose sight of this radiant creature—as he styled her to
himself—before he had been able to profit by the pronounced marks of
favour she had bestowed upon him so lavishly during the evening. But
when he reached the street, all out of breath from his frantic efforts
in dashing through the crowd, and bustling people right and left
regardless of everything but the object he had in view, there was
nothing to be seen of her; she had vanished, and left not a trace
behind. Leander reproached himself bitterly with his own folly in not
having endeavoured to exchange a few words with his lost divinity in
the brief interval between the two plays, and called himself every hard
name he could think of; as we are all apt to do in moments of vexation.
But while he still stood gazing disconsolately in the direction that
she must have taken, a little page, dressed in a dark brown livery, and
with his cap pulled down over his eyes, suddenly appeared beside him,
and accosted him politely in a high childish treble, which he vainly
strove to render more manly. “Are you M. Leander? the one who played
Lygdamon a while ago?”
“Yes, I am,” answered Leander, amused at the pretentious airs of his
small interlocutor, “and pray what can I do for you, my little man?”
“Oh! nothing for me, thank you,” said the page, with a significant
smile, “only I am charged to deliver a message to you—if you are
disposed to hear it—from the lady of the mask.”
“From the lady of the mask!” cried Leander. “Oh I tell me quickly what
it is; I am dying to hear it.”
“Well, here it is, then, word for word,” said the tiny page jauntily.
“If Lygdamon is as brave as he is gallant, he will go at midnight to
the open square in front of the church, where he will find a carriage
awaiting him; he will enter it without question, as without fear, and
go whither it will take him.”
Before the astonished Leander had time to answer, the page had
disappeared in the crowd, leaving him in great perplexity, for if his
heart beat high with joy at the idea of a romantic adventure, his
shoulders still reminded him painfully of the beating he had received
in a certain park at dead of night, and he remembered with a groan how
he had been lured on to his own undoing. Was this another snare spread
for him by some envious wretch who begrudged him his brilliant success
that evening, and was jealous of the marked favour he had found in the
eyes of the fair ladies of Poitiers? Should he encounter some furious
husband at the rendezvous, sword in hand, ready to fall upon him and
run him through the body? These thoughts chilled his ardour, and had
nearly caused him to disregard entirely the page’s mysterious message.
Yet, if he did not profit by this tempting opportunity, which looked so
promising, he might make a terrible mistake; and, if he failed to go,
would not the lady of the mask suspect him of cowardice, and be
justified in so doing? This thought was insupportable to the gallant
Leander, and he decided to venture, though low be it spoken—in fear and
trembling. He hastened back to the hotel, scarcely touched the
substantial supper provided for the comedians—his appetite lost in his
intense excitement—and retiring to his own chamber made an elaborate
toilet; curling and perfuming his hair and mustache, and sparing no
pains to make himself acceptable to the lovely lady of the mask. He
armed himself with a dagger and a sword, though he did not know how to
use either; but he thought that the mere sight of them might inspire
awe.
When he was all ready at last, he drew his broad felt hat well down
over his eyes, threw the corner of his cloak over his shoulder, in
Spanish fashion, so as to conceal the lower part of his face, and crept
stealthily out of the hotel—for once being lucky enough to escape the
observation of his wily tormentor, Scapin, who was at that moment
snoring his loudest in his own room at the other end of the house.
The streets had long been empty and deserted, for the good people of
the ancient and respectable town of Poitiers go early to bed. Leander
did not meet a living creature, excepting a few forlorn, homeless cats,
prowling about and bewailing themselves in a melancholy way, that fled
before him, and vanished round dark corners or in shadowy doorways. Our
gallant reached the open square designated by the little page just as
the last stroke of twelve was vibrating in the still night air. It gave
him a shudder; a superstitious sensation of horror took possession of
him, and he felt as if he had heard the tolling of his own funeral
bell. For an instant he was on the point of rushing back, and seeking
quiet, safe repose in his comfortable bed at the _Armes de France_, but
was arrested by the sight of the carriage standing there waiting for
him, with the tiny page himself in attendance, perched on the step and
holding the door open for him. So he was obliged to go on—for few
people in this strange world of ours have the courage to be cowardly
before witnesses—and instinctively acting a part, he advanced with a
deliberate and dignified bearing, that gave no evidence of the inward
fear and agitation that had set his heart beating as if it would burst
out of his breast, and sent strong shivers over him from his head to
his feet. Scarcely had he taken his seat in the carriage when the
coachman touched his horses with the whip, and they were off at a good
round pace; while he was in utter darkness, and did not even know which
way they went, as the leathern curtains were carefully drawn down, so
that nothing could be seen from within, or without. The small page
remained at his post on the carriage step, but spoke never a word, and
Leander could not with decency question him, much as he would have
liked to do so. He knew that his surroundings were luxurious, for his
exploring fingers told him that the soft, yielding cushions, upon which
he was resting, were covered with velvet, and his feet sank into a
thick, rich rug, while the vague, delicious perfume, that seemed to
surround and caress him, soothed his ruffled feelings, and filled his
mind with rapturous visions of bliss. He tried in vain to divine who it
could be that had sent to fetch him in this delightfully mysterious
way, and became more curious than ever, and also rather uneasy again,
when he felt that the carriage had quitted the paved streets of the
town, and was rolling smoothly and rapidly along over a country road.
At last it stopped, the little page jumped down and flung the door wide
open, and Leander, alighting, found himself confronted by a high, dark
wall, which seemed to inclose a park, or garden; but he did not
perceive a wooden door close at hand until his small companion, pushing
back a rusty bolt, proceeded to open it, with considerable difficulty,
and admitted him into what was apparently a thick wood.
“Take hold of my hand,” said the page patronizingly to Leander, “so
that I can guide you; it is too dark for you to be able to make out the
path through this labyrinth of trees.”
Leander obeyed, and both walked cautiously forward, feeling their way
as they wound in and out among the trees, and treading the crackling,
dry leaves, strewn thickly upon the ground, under their feet. Emerging
from the wood at last, they came upon a garden, laid out in the usual
style, with rows of box bordering the angular flower beds, and with yew
trees, cut into pyramids, at regular intervals; which, just perceptible
in the darkness, looked like sentinels posted on their way—a shocking
sight for the poor timid actor, who trembled in every limb. They passed
them all, however, unchallenged, and ascended some stone steps leading
up to a terrace, on which stood a small country house—a sort of
pavilion, with a dome, and little turrets at the corners. The place
seemed quite deserted, save for a subdued glimmer of light from one
large window, which the thick crimson silk curtains within could not
entirely conceal. At this reassuring sight Leander dismissed all fear
from his mind, and gave himself up to the most blissful anticipations.
He was in a seventh heaven of delight; his feet seemed to spurn the
earth; he would have flown into the presence of the waiting angel
within if he had but known the way. How he wished, in this moment of
glory and triumph, that Scapin, his mortal enemy and merciless
tormentor, could see him. The tiny page stepped on before him, and
after opening a large glass door and showing him into a spacious
apartment, furnished with great luxury and elegance, retired and left
him alone, without a word. The vaulted ceiling—which was the interior
of the dome seen from without—was painted to represent a light blue
sky, in which small rosy clouds were floating, and bewitching little
Loves flying about in all sorts of graceful attitudes, while the walls
were hung with beautiful tapestry. The cabinets, inlaid with exquisite
Florentine mosaics and filled with many rare and curious objects of
virtu, the round table covered with a superb Turkish cloth, the large,
luxurious easy-chairs, the vases of priceless porcelain filled with
fragrant flowers, all testified to the wealth and fastidious taste of
their owner. The richly gilded candelabra, of many branches, holding
clusters of wax candles, which shed their soft, mellow light on all
this magnificence, were upheld by sculptured arms and hands in black
marble, to represent a negro’s, issuing from fantastic white marble
sleeves; as if the sable attendants were standing without the room, and
had passed their arms through apertures in the wall.
Leander, dazzled by so much splendour, did not at first perceive that
there was no one awaiting him in this beautiful apartment, but when he
had recovered from his first feeling of astonishment, and realized that
he was alone, he proceeded to take off his cloak and lay it, with his
hat and sword, on a chair in one corner, after which he deliberately
rearranged his luxuriant ringlets in front of a Venetian mirror, and
then, assuming his most graceful and telling pose, began pouring forth
in dulcet tones the following monologue: “But where, oh! where, is the
divinity of this Paradise? Here is the temple indeed, but I see not the
goddess. When, oh! when, will she deign to emerge from the cloud that
veils her perfect form, and reveal herself to the adoring eyes, that
wait so impatiently to behold her?” rolling the said organs of vision
about in the most effective manner by way of illustration.
Just at that moment, as if in response to this eloquent appeal, the
crimson silk hanging, which fell in front of a door that Leander had
not noticed, was pushed aside, and the lady he had come to seek stood
before him; with the little black velvet mask still over her face, to
the great disappointment and discomfiture of her expectant suitor. “Can
it be possible that she is ugly?” he thought to himself; “this
obstinate clinging to the mask alarms me.” But his uncertainty was of
short duration, for the lady, advancing to the centre of the room,
where Leander stood respectfully awaiting her pleasure, untied the
strings of the mask, took it off, and threw it down on the table,
disclosing a rather pretty face, with tolerably regular features,
large, brilliant, brown eyes, and smiling red lips. Her rich masses of
dark hair were elaborately dressed, with one long curl hanging down
upon her neck, and enhancing its whiteness by contrast; the uncovered
shoulders were plump and shapely, and the full, snowy bosom rose and
fell tumultuously under the cloud of beautifully fine lace that veiled,
not concealed, its voluptuous curves.
“Mme. la Marquise de Bruyères!” cried Leander, astonished to the
highest degree, and not a little agitated, as the remembrance of his
last, and first, attempt to meet her, and what he had found in her
place, rushed back upon him; “can it be possible? am I dreaming? or may
I dare to believe in such unhoped-for, transcendent happiness?”
“Yes; you are not mistaken, my dear friend,” said she, “I am indeed the
Marquise de Bruyères, and recognised, I trust, by your heart as well as
your eyes.”
“Ah! but too well,” Leander replied, in thrilling tones. “Your adored
image is cherished there, traced in living lines of light; I have only
to look into that devoted, faithful heart, to see and worship your
beauteous form, endowed with every earthly grace, and radiant with
every heavenly perfection.”
“I thank you,” said the _marquise_, “for having retained such a kind
and tender remembrance of me; it proves that yours is a noble,
magnanimous soul. You had every reason to think me cruel, ungrateful,
false—when, alas! my poor heart in reality is but too susceptible, and
I was far from being insensible to the passionate admiration you so
gracefully testified for me. Your letter addressed to me did not reach
my hands, but unfortunately fell into those of the marquis—through the
heartless treachery of the faithless maid to whom it was intrusted—and
he sent you the answer which so cruelly deceived you, my poor Leander!
Some time after he showed me that letter, laughing heartily over what
he was wicked enough to call a capital joke; that letter, in every line
of which the purest, most impassioned love shone so brightly, and
filled my heart with joy, despite his ridicule and coarse abuse. It did
not produce the effect upon me that he expected and intended; the
sentiment I cherished secretly for you was only increased and
strengthened by its persuasive eloquence, and I resolved to reward you
for all that you had suffered for my sake. Knowing my husband to be
perfectly absorbed in his most recent conquest, and so oblivious of me
that there was no danger of his becoming aware of my absence from the
Château de Bruyères, I have ventured to come to Poitiers; for I have
heard you express fictitious love so admirably, that I long to know
whether you can be as eloquent and convincing when you speak for
yourself.”
“Mme. la Marquise,” said Leander, in his sweetest tones, sinking
gracefully on his knees, upon a cushion at the feet of the lady, who
had let herself fall languidly into a low easy-chair, as if exhausted
by the extreme effort that her confession had been to her modesty.
“Madame, or rather most lovely queen and deity, what can mere empty
words, counterfeit passion, imaginary raptures, conceived and written
in cold blood by the poets, and make-believe sighs, breathed out at the
feet of an odious actress, all powdered and painted, whose eyes are
wandering absently around the theatre—what can these be beside the
living words that gush out from the soul, the fire that burns in the
veins and arteries, the hyperboles of an exalted passion, to which the
whole universe cannot furnish images brilliant and lofty enough to
apply to its idol, and the aspirations of a wildly loving heart, that
would fain break forth from the breast that contains it, to serve as a
footstool for the dear object of its adoration? You deign to say,
celestial _marquise_, that I express with some feeling the fictitious
love in the pieces I play. Shall I tell you why it is so? Because I
never look at, or even think of, the actress whom I seem to address—my
thoughts soar far above and beyond her—and I speak to my own perfect
ideal; to a being, noble, beautiful, _spirituelle_ as yourself, Mme. la
Marquise! It is you, in fine, _you_ that I see and love under the name
of Silvie, Doralice, Isabelle, or whatever it may chance to be; they
are only your phantoms for me.”
With these words Leander, who was too good an actor to neglect the
pantomime that should accompany such a declaration, bent down over the
hand that the _marquise_ had allowed him to take, and covered it with
burning kisses; which delicate attention was amiably received, and his
real love-making seemed to be as pleasing to her ladyship as even he
could have desired.
The eastern sky was all aflame with the radiance of the coming sun when
Leander, well wrapped in his warm cloak, was driven back to Poitiers.
As he lifted a corner of one of the carefully lowered curtains, to see
which side of the town they were approaching, he caught sight of the
Marquis de Bruyères and the Baron de Sigognac, still at some distance,
who were walking briskly along the road towards him, on their way to
the spot designated for the duel.
Leander let the curtain drop, so as not to be seen by the marquis, who
was almost grazed by the carriage wheels as they rolled by him, and a
satisfied smile played round his lips; he was revenged—the beating was
atoned for now.
The place selected for the hostile meeting between the Baron de
Sigognac and the Duke of Vallombreuse was sheltered from the cold north
wind by a high wall, which also screened the combatants from the
observation of those passing along the road. The ground was firm, well
trodden down, without stones, tufts of grass, or inequalities of any
kind, which might be in the way of the swordsmen, and offered every
facility to men of honour to murder each other after the most correct
and approved fashion. The Duke of Vallombreuse and the Chevalier de
Vidalinc, followed by a surgeon, arrived at the rendezvous only a few
seconds after the others, and the four gentlemen saluted each other
with the haughty courtesy and frigid politeness becoming to well-bred
men meeting for such a purpose. The duke’s countenance was expressive
of the most careless indifference, as he felt perfect confidence in his
own courage and skill. The baron was equally cool and collected, though
it was his first duel, and a little nervousness or agitation would have
been natural and excusable. The Marquis de Bruyères watched him with
great satisfaction, auguring good things for their side from his quiet
_sang-froid_. Vallombreuse immediately threw off his cloak and hat, and
unfastened his _pourpoint_, in which he was closely imitated by de
Sigognac. The marquis and the chevalier measured the swords of the
combatants, which were found to be of equal length, and then each
second placed his principal in position, and put his sword in his hand.
“Fall to, gentlemen, and fight like men of spirit, as you are,” said
the marquis.
“A needless recommendation that,” chimed in the Chevalier de Vidalinc;
“they go at it like lions—-we shall have a superb duel.”
The Duke of Vallombreuse, who, in his inmost heart, could not help
despising de Sigognac more than a little, and had imagined that he
should find in him but a weak antagonist, was astonished when he
discovered the strength of the baron’s sword, and could not deny to
himself that he wielded a firm and supple blade, which baffled his own
with the greatest ease—that he was, in fine, a “foeman worthy of his
steel.” He became more careful and attentive; then tried several
feints, which were instantly detected. At the least opening he left,
the point of de Sigognac’s sword, rapid as lightning in its play,
darted in upon him, necessitating the exercise of all his boasted skill
to parry it. He ventured an attack, which was so promptly met, and his
weapon so cleverly struck aside, that he was left exposed to his
adversary’s thrust, and but for throwing himself back out of reach, by
a sudden, violent movement, he must have received it full in his
breast. From that instant all was changed for the young duke; he had
believed that he would be able to direct the combat according to his
own will and pleasure, but, instead of that, he was forced to make use
of all his skill and address to defend himself. He had believed that
after a few passes he could wound de Sigognac, wherever he chose, by a
thrust which, up to that time, he had always found successful; but,
instead of that, he had hard work to avoid being wounded himself.
Despite his efforts to remain calm and cool, he was rapidly growing
angry; he felt himself becoming nervous and feverish, while the baron,
perfectly at his ease and unmoved, seemed to take a certain pleasure in
irritating him by the irreproachable excellence of his fence.
“Sha’n’t we do something in this way too, while our friends are
occupied?” said the chevalier to the marquis.
“It is very cold this morning. Suppose we fight a little also, if only
to warm ourselves up, and set our blood in motion.”
“With all my heart,” the marquis replied; “we could not do better.”
The chevalier was superior to the Marquis de Bruyères in the noble art
of fencing, and after a few passes had sent the latter’s sword flying
out of his hand. As no enmity existed between them, they stopped there
by mutual consent, and turned their attention again to de Sigognac and
Vallombreuse. The duke, sore pressed by the close play of the baron,
had fallen back several feet from his original position. He was
becoming weary, and beginning to draw panting breaths. From time to
time, as their swords clashed violently together, bluish sparks flew
from them; but the defence was growing perceptibly weaker, and de
Sigognac was steadily forcing the duke to give way before his attack.
When he saw the state of affairs, the Chevalier de Vidalinc turned very
pale, and began to feel really anxious for his friend, who was so
evidently getting the worst of it.
“Why the devil doesn’t he try that wonderful thrust he learned from
Girolamo of Naples?” murmured he. “This confounded Gascon cannot
possibly know anything about that.”
As if inspired by the same thought, the young duke did, at that very
moment, try to put it into execution; but de Sigognac, aware of what he
was preparing to do, not only prevented but anticipated him, and
touched and wounded his adversary in the arm—his sword going clean
through it.
The pain was so intense that the duke’s fingers could no longer grasp
his sword, and it fell to the ground. The baron, with the utmost
courtesy, instantly desisted, although he was entitled by the rules of
the code to follow up his blow with another—for the duel does not
necessarily come to an end with the first blood drawn. He turned the
point of his sword to the ground, put his left hand on his hip, and
stood silently awaiting his antagonist’s pleasure. But Vallombreuse
could not hold the sword which his second had picked up and presented
to him, after a nod of acquiescence from de Sigognac; and he turned
away to signify that he had had enough. Whereupon, the marquis and the
baron, after bowing politely to the others, set forth quietly to walk
back to the town.