THE TWO DUELS
"Engage, gentlemen!" cried the colonel.
Von Bülow's sword swept through the air with a flash like lightning.
But, rapid though it was, it descended in empty space. Warned by the
instinct of a true fencer, the blades had barely crossed when Benedict
sprang swiftly aside and remained standing unguarded, his point lowered,
and his mocking smile disclosing a fine set of teeth. His adversary
paused, perplexed, then swung round so as to face him, but did not
immediately advance. However, feeling that this duel must be no child's
play, he stepped forward and instantly the point of Benedict's sword
rose menacingly against him. Involuntarily he retreated a step. Benedict
now fixed his eyes upon him, circling round him, now bending to the
right, now again to the left, but always keeping his weapon low and
ready to strike.
The major began to feel a kind of hypnotic influence overpowering him.
Determined to fight against it, he boldly stepped forward, holding his
sword aloft. Instantly he felt the touch of cold steel. Benedict thrust,
his rapier pierced von Bülow's shirt and reappeared on the other side.
Had not the major remained standing motionless opposite him, an onlooker
would have supposed he had been run through the body.
The seconds hastened up, but:
"It is nothing, I assure you," said the major.
Then, perceiving that Benedict had only intended to pierce his shirt and
not himself, he added:
"Come, sir, let us continue this game in earnest."
"Ah!" said Benedict, "but you see, had I played in earnest, you would
now be a dead man!"
"On guard, sir," cried von Bülow, furious, "and remember this is a duel
to the death."
Benedict stepped back and saluting with his sword:
"Pardon me, gentlemen," he said, "you see how unfortunate I am. Although
fully intending not to use my point I have nevertheless made two holes
in my opponent's shirt. My hand might again refuse to obey my will, and,
as I do not visit a country merely to rebel against its
customs--particularly when they happen to be philanthropic--so--"
He went up to a rock which rose out of the little valley and, placing
the point of his rapier in a crevice, broke off a good inch of the
blade.
His adversary wished to do likewise, but,
"It is quite unnecessary, sir," said Benedict, "you are not likely to
use your point."
Being now reduced to ordinary sword-play, Benedict crossed swords with
his opponent, which necessitated their keeping close together. But he
continually retreated half a pace and advanced again, thanks to which
incessant movement the major merely made cuts in the air. Becoming
impatient, he endeavoured to reach Benedict, missed again, and
involuntarily lowered his weapon. Benedict parried a back stroke and
touched von Bülow's breast with the broken point. Said he:
"You see I was right in breaking the point of my sword. Otherwise, this
time something besides your shirt would have been pierced."
The major remained silent, but quickly recovering himself again stood on
guard. He now saw that his adversary was a most skilful swordsman, who
united French celerity with determined coolness and who was fully
conscious of his strength.
Benedict, seeing that an end must be made, now stood still, calm but
menacing, with frowning brows and eyes fixed on his enemy, not
attempting to strike but retaining a posture of defence. It seemed as if
he awaited the attack, but suddenly with the unexpected celerity which
characterized all his movements, he sprang forward with a bound like
that of a jaguar, aimed a blow at his adversary's head, and as the
latter raised his arm in defence, drew a line with his blade right
across his chest. Then, springing lightly back in the same instant he
again lowered his sword as before.
Von Bülow's shirt, slashed as though cut by a razor, was instantly
tinged with blood. The seconds moved forward.
"Do not stir, I beg," cried the major, "it is nothing but a scratch. I
must confess the gentleman's hand is a light one."
And he again stood on guard.
Courageous though he was, he felt he was losing confidence, and,
dumbfounded by his enemy's agility, a sense of great danger oppressed
him. Evidently Benedict was keeping just out of reach, and was merely
waiting until he should expose himself by an unwary advance. He
understood that hitherto his opponent had simply played with him, but
that now the duel was approaching an end and that his smallest mistake
would be severely punished. His sword, never able to encounter
Benedict's, seemed to become lifeless, and ceased to respond to his
will.
His previous experience in fencing seemed useless here, and this
flashing blade which he could never touch, but which rose constantly
before him, alert, intelligent, as if endued with life, confused his
senses. He dared not risk a movement before this enemy always just
beyond his reach, so imperturbable and yet so alert, and who evidently
intended, like the artist he was, either to finish with one brilliant
stroke or else--which did not seem likely--to expire in a dignified pose
like the "Dying Gladiator."
But, exasperated by his opponent's perfect bodily grace, by his elegant
and masterly swordsmanship, and still more by the mocking smile which
hovered on his lips, von Bülow felt the blood rise to his temples, and
could not resist muttering between his teeth:
"This fellow is the very devil!"
And, springing forward, no longer fearing the broken point, he raised
his sword and aimed a blow with all his might at his adversary, a blow
which, had it reached its object, would have split his head as though it
had been an apple. Again, the stroke only encountered empty air, for
once more Benedict had effaced himself by a light, graceful spring, very
familiar to Parisian fencing masters.
The major's raised sword had broken his guard. A flash, as of lightning,
and his arm, streaming with blood, fell against his side. His sword
dropped, but remained upright supported by the sword knot.
The seconds hurried to his side. Very pale, but with smiling lips, von
Bülow bowed to Benedict and said:
"I thank you, sir. When you might have run me through the body you only
wounded my shirt; when you might have cut me in two you let me off with
the sort of cut one gets in shaving, and now, when you might have either
cleft my head or maimed my arm, I escape with a ruined sleeve. I now
ask you to extend your courtesy even further, and to complete the
record like the gentleman you are by explaining why you have spared me
thus?"
"Sir," said Benedict with a smile, "in the house of Herr Fellner, the
Burgomaster of Frankfort, I was introduced to his god-daughter, a
charming lady, who adores her husband. Her name was the Baroness von
Bülow. When I saw your card it occurred to me that you might be related,
and though, beautiful as she is, mourning could only add to her charm,
it would grieve me to have been the cause of compelling her to wear it."
The major looked Benedict in the face and, stern soldier though he might
be, there were tears in his eyes.
"Madame von Bülow is my wife," he said. "Believe me, sir, wherever she
may meet you she will greet you thus: 'My husband foolishly quarrelled
with you, sir; may you ever be blessed because for my sake you spared
him!' and she will give you her hand with as much gratitude as I now
offer you mine."
And he added smiling:
"Forgive me for only offering my left hand. It is entirely your own
fault that I cannot give you the right."
And now, although the wound was not dangerous, von Bülow did not refuse
to have it dressed. The surgeon promptly ripped up his sleeve,
disclosing a wound, not very deep, but terrible to look at, which
extended down the arm from the shoulder to the elbow. And one shuddered
to think what such a wound would have been, had the swordsman struck
with all his force instead of simply drawing his blade along the arm.
The surgeon dipped a cloth in the ice-cold spring which rose at the foot
of the rock and wrapped it round the arm. He then drew the sides of the
wound together and strapped them with plaster. He assured the major that
he would be quite able to continue his journey to Frankfort in the
evening.
Benedict offered his carriage to the major, who, however, declined,
being curious to see what would happen to his successor. He excused
himself on the score that courtesy required him to wait for Herr Georges
Kleist.
Although Herr Kleist, having had time to see what sort of adversary he
had to deal with, would willingly have been some leagues away, he put a
brave face on the matter, and although he grew perceptibly pale during
the first duel, and still paler when the wound was dressed, he was,
nevertheless, the first to say.
"Excuse my interrupting you, gentlemen, but it is my turn now."
"I am quite at your service, sir," said Benedict.
"You are not properly dressed for a duel with pistols," interposed
Colonel Anderson, glancing at Benedict's costume.
"Really," said Benedict, "I never thought about what clothes I was to
fight in. I only wanted to do it with comfort to myself. That's all!"
"You can at least put on your tunic and button it!"
"Bah! It is much too hot."
"Perhaps we ought to have taken the pistols first. All this sword-play
may have unsteadied your hand."
"My hand is my servant, dear colonel; it knows it has to obey me and you
will see it does so."
"Do you wish to see the pistols you are to use?"
"You have seen them, have you not? Are they double barrelled or single?"
"Single barrelled duelling pistols. They were hired this morning from a
gunsmith in the Grande Place."
"Then call my other second and see them properly loaded. Mind the shot
is inside the barrels, and not dropped outside."
"I will load them myself."
"Colonel," asked the Prussian officers, "do you wish to see the pistols
loaded?"
"Yes. I wish to do so. But how are we to arrange? Herr Kleist will only
have one second."
"These two gentlemen may answer for Herr Kleist," said the major, "and I
will go over to M. Turpin." And his wound being now bandaged, he went
and sat down on the rock which gave its name to the glade.
Meanwhile the pistols were loaded, Colonel Anderson fulfilling his
promise by putting in the balls himself. Benedict came up to him.
"Tell me," the Englishman asked gravely, "do you mean to kill him?"
"What do you expect? One can't exactly play with pistols as one can with
swords or rapiers."
"Surely there is some way of disabling people with whom you have no
serious quarrel without killing them outright?"
"I really cannot undertake to miss him just to oblige you! Think! He
would naturally go and publish everywhere that I did not know how to
shoot!"
"All right! I see I need not have spoken. I bet you have an idea of some
sort."
"Frankly, I have. But then he must do his part."
"What must he do?"
"Just keep perfectly still, it ought not to be so very difficult. See,
they are ready."
The seconds had just measured the forty-five paces. Colonel Anderson now
measured off fifteen from each end, and to mark the exact limit which
neither combatant was to pass, he laid two scabbards across and planted
a sword upright in the ground at each end to decide the starting-point.
"To your places, gentlemen," cried the seconds.
Herr Kleist having selected his pistol, the colonel brought the other to
Benedict, who was talking to the major, and who took the pistol without
as much as looking at it, and still chatting with von Bülow, walked
quietly to his place.
The duellists now stood at the extreme distance.
"Gentlemen!" said Colonel Anderson, "you are now forty-five paces apart.
Each of you may either advance fifteen paces before firing, or may fire
from where he now stands. Herr Georges Kleist has the first shot and may
fire as soon as he pleases. Having fired, he may hold his pistol so as
to protect any part of himself he wishes.
"Now, gentlemen!"
The two adversaries advanced towards each other. Having arrived at the
mark, Benedict waited, standing, facing his opponent with folded arms. A
light breeze ruffled his hair and blew his shirt open at the chest. He
had walked at his ordinary pace.
Herr Kleist, dressed entirely in black, bare-headed, and with closely
buttoned coat, had advanced slowly, by force of will overcoming physical
disinclination. He halted at the limit.
"You are ready, sir?" he asked.
"Quite ready, sir."
"Will you not turn sideways?"
"I am not accustomed to do so."
Then, turning himself, Herr Kleist slowly raised his pistol, took aim,
and fired.
Benedict heard the ball whiz close by his ear and felt the wind ruffle
his hair; it had passed within an inch of his head.
His adversary instantly raised his pistol, holding it so as to protect
his face, but was unable entirely to control a nervous movement of his
hand.
"Sir," said Benedict, "you courteously asked just now if I would not
stand sideways, which is unusual between combatants. Permit me in my
turn to offer a piece of advice, or rather, make a request."
"What is it, sir?" asked the journalist, still protecting himself with
his pistol.
"This; keep your hand steady, your pistol is moving. I wish to put my
ball in the wood of your pistol, which will be very difficult unless you
keep it quite still. Against my own will I might hit you, either in the
cheek or the back of the head, whereas--if you keep your hand just as it
is--"
He raised his pistol and fired instantly.
"There! it is done now!"
It was done so rapidly that no one could have supposed he had taken any
aim at all. But, even as the report was heard, Herr Kleist's pistol was
blown to pieces and he himself staggered and fell on one knee.
"Ah!" said Anderson, "you have killed him."
"I think not," replied Benedict. "I aimed between the two screws which
hold the hammer. It is the shock of the concussion which has brought him
down."
The surgeon and the two seconds hastened to the wounded man, who now
held only the butt end of his pistol. There was a terrible bruise on his
cheek, reaching from the eye to the jaw. Otherwise he was untouched,
only the shock had knocked him down.
The barrel of the pistol was picked up on one side and the lock on the
other. The ball had lodged exactly between the two screws. Had it
continued its course unobstructed it would have broken the upper jaw and
penetrated the brain.
The dressing was simple--the bruise was a very bad one, but the skin was
only broken in two places, and the surgeon considered a cold-water
bandage to be all that was required.
Benedict embraced the major, bowed to the journalist, shook hands with
the seconds, put on his coat, and got into the carriage, looking less
dishevelled than if he had come from a picnic.
"Well, my dear sponsor," he said to Colonel Anderson.
"Well, my dear godson," responded the latter, "I know at least ten men
besides myself who would willingly have given a thousand pounds to see
what I have seen to-day."
"Sir," said Lenhart, "if you would promise neither to hunt nor to fight
unless I am there to see, I, my horse, and my carriage should be at your
service for the rest of my life."
And indeed, Benedict returned as he had foretold, having fought his
duels, vanquished his adversaries, and come off without a single
scratch!