LAMPOURDE’S DELICACY
It is easy to imagine the frame of mind in which the Duke of
Vallombreuse returned home after his repulse by Isabelle, and her
rescue from his arms by the timely intervention of her friends, the
comedians. At sight of his face, fairly livid and contorted with
suppressed rage, his servants trembled and shrunk away from him—as well
they might—for his natural cruelty was apt to vent itself upon the
first unhappy dependent that happened to come in his way when his wrath
was excited. He was not an easy master to serve, even in his most
genial mood—this haughty, exacting young nobleman—and in his frantic
fits of anger he was more savage and relentless than a half-starved
tiger. Upon entering his own house he rushed through it like a
whirlwind, shutting every door behind him with such a violent bang that
the very walls shook, and pieces of the gilt mouldings round the panels
were snapped off, and scattered on the floor. When he reached his own
room he flung down his hat with such force that it was completely
flattened, and the feather broken short off. Then, unable to breathe
freely, he tore open his rich velvet _pourpoint_, as he rushed
frantically to and fro, without any regard for the superb diamond
buttons that fastened it, which flew in every direction. The
exquisitely fine lace ruffles round his neck were reduced to shreds in
a second, and with a vigorous kick he knocked over a large arm-chair
that stood in his way, and left it upside down, with its legs in the
air.
“The impudent little hussy!” he cried, as he continued his frenzied
walk, like a wild beast in a cage. “I have a great mind to have her
thrown into prison, there to be well-whipped, and have her hair shaved
off, before being sent to a lunatic asylum—or better still to some
strict convent where they take in bad girls who have been forcibly
rescued from lives of infamy. I could easily manage it. But no, it
would be worse than useless—persecution would only make her hate me
more, and would not make her love that cursed de Sigognac a bit less.
How can I punish her? what on earth shall I do?” and still he paced
restlessly to and fro, cursing and swearing, and raving like a madman.
While he was indulging in these transports of rage, without paying any
attention to how the time was passing, evening drew on, and it was
rapidly growing dark when his faithful Picard, full of commiseration,
screwed up his courage to the highest point, and ventured to go softly
in—though he had not been called, and was disobeying orders—to light
the candles in his master’s room; thinking that he was quite gloomy
enough already without being left in darkness as well, and hoping that
the lights might help to make him more cheerful. They did seem to
afford him some relief, in that they caused a diversion; for his
thoughts, which had been all of Isabelle and her cruel repulse of his
passionate entreaties, suddenly flew to his successful rival, the Baron
de Sigognac.
“But how is this?” he cried, stopping short in his rapid pacing up and
down the room. “How comes it that that miserable, degraded wretch has
not been despatched before this? I gave the most explicit orders about
it to that good-for-nothing Mérindol. In spite of what Vidalinc says, I
am convinced that I shall succeed with Isabelle when once that cursed
lover of hers is out of my way. She will be left entirely at my mercy
then, and will have to submit to my will and pleasure with the best
grace she can muster—for I shall not allow any sulking or tears.
Doubtless she clings so obstinately to that confounded brute in the
belief that she can induce him to marry her in the end. She means to be
Mme. la Baronne de Sigognac—the aspiring little actress! That must be
the reason of all this mighty display of mock modesty, and of her
venturing to repulse the attentions of a duke, as scornfully, by Jove!
as if he were a stable-boy. But she shall rue it—the impertinent little
minx! and I’ll have no mercy shown to the audacious scoundrel who dared
to disable this right arm of mine. Halloa there! send Mérindol up to me
instantly, do you hear?”
Picard flew to summon him, and in a few moments the discomfited bully
made his appearance; pale from abject terror, with teeth chattering and
limbs trembling, as he was ushered into the dread presence of his angry
lord. In spite of his efforts to assume the _sang-froid_ he was so far
from feeling, he staggered like a drunken man, though he had not drank
enough wine that day to drown a fly, and did not dare to lift his eyes
to his master’s face.
“Well, you cowardly beast,” said Vallombreuse angrily, how long, pray,
are you going to stand there speechless, like a stupid fool, with that
hang-dog air, as if you already had the rope that you so richly deserve
round your wicked neck? “I only awaited your lordship’s orders,”
stammered Mérindol, trying to appear at ease, and failing lamentably.
“My lord duke knows that I am entirely devoted to his service—even to
being hanged, if it seems good to your lordship.”
“Enough of that cant!” interrupted the duke impatiently. “Didn’t I
charge you to have that cursed de Sigognac, otherwise Captain Fracasse,
cleared out of my way? You have not done it—my orders have not been
obeyed. It is worth while, upon my word, to keep confounded hired
rascals to do such work for me, at this rate! All that you are good for
is to stuff yourself in the kitchen, you dastardly beast, and to guzzle
my good wine from morning until night. But I’ve had enough of this, by
Jove! and if there is not a change, and that without any further loss
of time, to the hangman you shall go—do you hear? just as sure as you
stand there, gaping like a drivelling idiot.”
“My lord duke,” said Mérindol in a trembling voice, “is unjust to his
faithful servant, who desires nothing but to do his lord’s bidding. But
this Baron de Sigognac is not to be disposed of so easily as my lord
believes. Never was there a braver, more fearless man. In our first
attack on him, at Poitiers, he got the better of us in a most wonderful
way—we never saw the like of it—and all he had to fight with was a
dull, rusty sword, not intended for use at all; a theatre sword, just
for looks. And when we tried to do for him here in Paris, the very
night he got here, it all came to naught, because he was so watchful,
and somehow suspected what we were up to, and was ready for us; and
that upset our beautiful little plan entirely. I never was so surprised
in my life; and there was nothing for us to do, the whole four of us,
but to get out of his sight as fast as we could, and he standing there
laughing at us. Oh! he’s a rare one, is Captain Fracasse. And now he
knows my face, so I can’t go near him myself. But I have engaged the
services of a particular friend of mine—the bravest man and the best
fighter in Paris—he hasn’t his equal in the world with the sword, they
all say. He is lying in wait for him on the Pont-Neuf now, at this very
moment, and there’ll be no mistake this time. Lampourde will be sure to
despatch him for us—if it is not done already—and that without the
slightest danger of your lordship’s name being mixed up with the affair
in any way, as it might have been if your lordship’s own servants had
done it.”
“The plan is not a bad one,” said the young duke, somewhat mollified,
“and perhaps it is better that it should be done in that way. But are
you really sure of the courage and skill of this friend of yours? He
will need both to get the better of that confounded de Sigognac, who is
no coward, and a master hand with the sword, I am bound to acknowledge,
though I do hate him like the devil.”
“My lord need have no fears,” said Mérindol enthusiastically, being now
more at his ease. “Jacquemin Lampourde is a hero, a wonder, as
everybody will tell your lordship. He is more valiant than Achilles, or
the great Alexander. He is not spotless certainly, like the Chevalier
Bayard, but he is fearless.”
Picard, who had been hovering about for a few minutes in an uneasy way,
now seeing that his master was in a better humour, approached and told
him that a very odd-looking man was below, who asked to see him
immediately on most important business.
“You may bring him in,” said the duke, “but just warn him, Picard, that
if he dares to intrude upon me for any trifling matter, I’ll have him
skinned alive before I let him go.”
Mirindol was just about leaving the room, when the entrance of the
newcomer rooted him to the spot; he was so astonished and alarmed that
he could not move hand or foot. And no wonder, for it was no other than
the hero whose name he had just spoken—Jacquemin Lampourde in
person—and the bare fact of his having dared to penetrate so boldly
into the dread presence of that high and mighty seignior, the Duke of
Vallombreuse, ignoring entirely the agent through whom his services had
been engaged, showed of itself that something very extraordinary must
have taken place.
Lampourde himself did not seem to be in the least disconcerted, and
after winking at his friend furtively in a very knowing way, stood
unabashed before the duke, with the bright light of the many wax
candles shining full upon his face. There was a red mark across his
forehead, where his hat had been pressed down over it, and great drops
of sweat stood on it, as if he had been running fast, or exercising
violently. His eyes, of a bluish gray tint, with a sort of metallic
lustre in them, were fixed upon those of the haughty young nobleman,
with a calm insolence that made Mérindol’s blood run cold in his veins;
his large nose, whose shadow covered all one side of his face, as the
shadow of Mount Etna covers a considerable portion of the island of
Sicily, stood out prominently, almost grotesquely, in profile; his
mustache, with its long stiff points carefully waxed, which produced
exactly the effect of an iron skewer stuck through his upper lip, and
the “royal” on his chin curled upward, like a comma turned the wrong
way, all contributed to make up a very extraordinary physiognomy, such
as caricaturists dote on. He wore a large scarlet cloak, wrapped
closely about his erect, vigorous form, and in one hand, which he
extended towards the duke, he held suspended a well filled purse—a
strange and mysterious proceeding which Mirindol could by no means
understand.
“Well, you rascal,” said the duke, after staring for a moment in
astonishment at this odd-looking specimen, “what does this mean? Are
you offering alms to me, pray, or what? with your purse there held out
at arm’s length, apparently for my acceptance.”
“In the first place, my lord duke,” said Lampourde, with perfect
_sang-froid_ and gravity, “may it not displease your highness, but I am
not a rascal. My name is Jacquemin Lampourde, and I ply the sword for a
living. My profession is an honourable one. I have never degraded
myself by taking part in trade of any kind, or by manual labour.
Killing is my business, at the risk of my own life and limb—for I
always do my work alone, unaided, armed only with my trusty sword. Fair
play is a jewel, and I would scorn to take a mean advantage of anybody.
I always give warning before I attack a man, and let him have a chance
to defend himself—having a horror of treachery, and cowardly, sneaking
ways. What profession could be more noble than mine, pray? I am no
common, brutal assassin, my lord duke, and I beseech your lordship to
take back that offensive epithet, which I could never accept, save in a
friendly, joking way—it outrages too painfully the sensitive delicacy
of my _amour-propre_, my lord!”
“Very well, so be it, Maître Jacquemin Lampourde, since you desire it,”
answered Vallombreuse, very much amused at the oddity of his strange
visitor. “And now have the goodness to explain your business here, with
a purse in your hand, that you certainly appear to be steadily offering
to me.”
Jacquemin satisfied by this concession to his susceptibility, suddenly
jerked his head forward, without bending his body, while he waved the
hat that he held slowly to and fro, making, according to his ideas, a
salute that was a judicious mingling of the soldier’s and the
courtier’s—which ceremony being concluded, he proceeded as follows with
his explanation:
“Here is the whole thing in a nutshell, my lord duke! I received, from
Mérindol—acting for your lordship—part payment in advance for
despatching a certain Baron de Sigognac, commonly called Captain
Fracasse. On account of circumstances beyond my control, I have not
been able to finish the job, and as I am a great stickler for honesty,
and honour also, I have hastened to bring back to you, my lord duke,
the money that I did not earn.”
With these words he advanced a step, and with a gesture that was not
devoid of dignity, gently laid the purse down on a beautiful Florentine
mosaic table, that stood at the duke’s elbow.
“Verily,” said Vallombreuse sneeringly, “we seem to have here one of
those droll bullies who are good for naught but to figure in a comedy;
an ass in a lion’s skin, whose roar is nothing worse than a bray. Come,
my man, own up frankly that you were afraid of that same de Sigognac.”
“Jacquemin Lampourde has never been afraid of anybody in his life,” the
fighting man replied, drawing himself up haughtily, “and no adversary
has ever seen his back. Those who know me will tell your lordship that
easy victories have no charm for me. I love danger and court it. I take
positive delight in it. I attacked the Baron de Sigognac ‘_secundum
artem_,’ and with one of my very best swords—made by Alonzo de Sahagun,
the elder, of Toledo.”
“Well, and what happened then?” said the young duke eagerly. “It would
seem that you could not have been victorious, since you wish to refund
this money, which was to pay you for despatching him.”
“First let me inform your highness that in the course of my duels and
combats, of one sort and another, I have left no less than thirty-seven
men stretched dead upon the ground—and that without counting in all
those I have wounded mortally or crippled for life. But this Baron de
Sigognac intrenched himself within a circle of flashing steel as
impenetrable as the walls of a granite fortress. I called into
requisition all the resources of my art against him, and tried in every
possible way to surprise him off his guard, but he was ready for
everything—as quick as a flash, as firm as a rock—he parried every
thrust triumphantly, magnificently, with the most consummate science,
and a grace and ease I have never seen equalled. He kept me busy
defending myself too all the time, and more than once had nearly done
for me. His audacity was astonishing, his _sang-froid_ superb, and his
perfect mastery over his sword, and his temper, sublime—he was not a
man, but a god. I could have fallen down and worshipped him. At the
risk of being spitted on his sword, I prolonged the fight as much as I
dared, so as to enjoy his marvellous, glorious, unparalleled method to
the utmost. However, there had to be an end of it, and I thought I was
sure of despatching him at last by means of a secret I possess—an
infallible and very difficult thrust, taught and bequeathed to me by
the great Girolamo of Naples, my beloved master—no man living has a
knowledge of it but myself—there is no one else left capable of
executing it to perfection, and upon that depends its success. Well, my
lord duke, Girolamo himself could not have done it better than I did
to-night. I was thunderstruck when my opponent did not go down before
it as if he had been shot. I expected to see him lying dead at my feet.
But not at all, by Jove! That devil of a Captain Fracasse parried my
blow with dazzling swiftness, and with such force that my blade was
broken short off, and I left completely at his mercy, with nothing but
the stump in my hand. See here, my lord duke! just look what he did to
my precious, priceless Sahagun.” And Jacquemin Lampourde, with a
piteous air, drew out and exhibited the sorry remains of his trusty
sword—almost weeping over it—and calling the duke’s attention to the
perfectly straight and even break.
“Your highness can see that it was a prodigious blow that snapped this
steel like a pipe-stem, and it was done with such ease and precision.
To despatch Captain Fracasse by fair means is beyond my skill, my lord
duke, and I would scorn to resort to treachery. Like all truly brave
men, he is generous. I was left entirely defenceless, and he could have
spitted me like an ortolan just by extending his arm, but he refrained;
he let me go unscathed. A miraculous display of delicacy, as well as
chivalrous generosity, from a gentleman assaulted in the gloaming on
the Pont-Neuf. I owe my life to him, and moreover, such a debt of
gratitude as I shall never be able to repay. I cannot undertake
anything more against him, my lord duke; henceforth he is sacred to me.
Besides, it would be a pity to destroy such a swordsman—good ones are
rare in these degenerate days, and growing more so every year. I don’t
believe he has his equal on earth. Most men handle a sword as if it
were a broomstick nowadays, and then expect to be praised and
applauded, the clumsy, stupid fools! Now, I have given my reasons for
coming to inform your highness that I must resign the commission I had
accepted. As for the money there, I might perhaps have been justified
in keeping it, to indemnify me for the great risk and peril I incurred,
but such a questionable proceeding would be repugnant to my tender
conscience and my honest pride, as your highness can understand.”
“In the name of all the devils in the infernal regions, take back your
money!” cried Vallombreuse impetuously, “or I will have you pitched out
of the window yonder, you and your money both. I never heard of such a
scrupulous scoundrel in my life. You, Mérindol, and your cursed crew,
have not a spark of honour or honesty among you all; far enough from
it.” Then perceiving that Lampourde hesitated about picking up the
purse, he added, “Take it, I tell you! I give it to you to drink my
health with.”
“In that, my lord duke, you shall be religiously obeyed,” Lampourde
replied joyfully; “however, I do not suppose that your highness will
object to my dedicating part of it to lansquenet.” And he stretched out
his long arm, seized the purse, and with one dexterous movement, like a
juggler, chucked it jingling into the depths of his pocket.
“It is understood then, my lord duke, that I retire from the affair so
far as the Baron de Sigognac is concerned,” continued Lampourde, “but,
if agreeable to your highness, it will be taken in hand by my ‘_alter
ego_,’ the Chevalier Malartic, who is worthy to be intrusted with the
most delicate and hazardous enterprises, because of his remarkable
adroitness and superior ability, and he is one of the best fellows in
the world into the bargain. I had sketched out a scheme for the
abduction of the young actress, in whom your highness condescends to
take an interest, which Malartic will now carry out, with all the
wonderful perfection of detail that characterizes his clever way of
doing things. Mérindol here, who knows him, will testify to his rare
qualifications, my lord duke, and you could not find a better man for
your purpose. I am presenting a real treasure to your lordship in
tendering Malartic’s services. When he is wanted your highness has only
to send a trusty messenger to mark a cross in chalk on the left-hand
door-post of the Crowned Radish. Malartic will understand, and repair
at once, in proper disguise, to this house, to receive your lordship’s
last orders.”
Having finished this triumphant address, Maître Jacquemin Lampourde
again saluted the duke as before, then put his hat on his head and
stalked majestically out of the room, exceedingly well satisfied with
his own eloquence, and what he considered courtly grace, in the
presence of so illustrious a nobleman. His oddity and originality,
together with his strange mingling of lofty notions of honour and
rascality, had greatly amused and interested the young Duke of
Vallombreuse, who was even willing to forgive him for not having
despatched de Sigognac; for, if even this famous professional duellist
could not get the better of him, he really must be invincible, and in
consequence the thought of his own defeat became less galling and
intolerable to his pride and vanity. Moreover, he had not been able to
get rid of an uncomfortable consciousness, even in his most angry mood,
that his endeavouring to compass de Sigognac’s assassination was rather
too great an enormity, not on account of any conscientious scruples,
but simply because his rival was a gentleman; he would not have
hesitated a second about having half-a-dozen _bourgeois_ murdered, if
they had been rash or unfortunate enough to interfere with him, the
blood of such base, ignoble creature being of no more consequence in
his eyes than so much water. Vallombreuse would have liked to despatch
his enemy himself in honourable combat, but that was rendered
impossible by the baron’s superior ability as a swordsman, of which he
still had a painful reminder in his wounded arm; which was scarcely
healed yet, and would prevent his indulging in anything like a duel for
some time to come. So his thoughts turned to the abduction of the young
actress; a pleasanter subject to dwell upon, as he felt not the
slightest doubt that once he had her to himself, separated from de
Sigognac and her companions, she would not long be able to withstand
his eloquent pleading and personal attractions. His self-conceit was
boundless, but not much to be wondered at, considering his invariable
and triumphant success in affairs of gallantry; so, in spite of his
recent repulse, he flattered himself that he only required a fitting
opportunity to obtain from Isabelle all that he desired.
“Let me have her for a few days in some secluded place,” said he to
himself, “where she cannot escape from me, or have any intercourse with
her friends, and I shall be sure to win her heart. I shall be so kind
and good and considerate to her, treat her with so much delicacy and
devotion, that she cannot help feeling grateful to me; and then the
transition to love will be easy and natural. But when once I have won
her, made her wholly mine, then she shall pay dearly for what she has
made me suffer. Yes, my lady, I mean to have my revenge—you may rest
assured of that.”