THE DUEL.
[Illustration: Mr. O’Leary Imagines Himself Kilt]
Mr. O’Leary had scarcely concluded the narrative of his second
adventure, when the grey light of the breaking day was seen faintly
struggling through the half-closed curtains, and apprising us of the
lateness of the hour.
“I think we shall just have time for one finishing flask of
Chambertin,” said O’Leary, as he emptied the bottle into his glass.
“I forbid the bans, for one,” cried Trevanion. “We have all had wine
enough, considering what we have before us this morning; and besides
you are not aware it is now past four o’clock. So garcon—garcon,
there—how soundly the poor fellow sleeps—let us have some coffee, and
then inquire if a carriage is in waiting at the corner of the Rue
Vivienne.”
The coffee made its appearance, very much, as it seemed, to Mr.
O’Leary’s chagrin, who, however, solaced himself by sundry petits
verres, to correct the coldness of the wine he had drank, and at length
recovered his good humour.
“Do you know, now,” said he, after a short pause, in which we had all
kept silence, “I think what we are about to do, is the very ugliest way
of finishing a pleasant evening. For my own part I like the wind up we
used to have in ‘Old Trinity’ formerly; when, after wringing off half a
dozen knockers, breaking the lamps at the post-office, and getting out
the fire engines of Werburgh’s parish, we beat a few watchmen, and went
peaceably to bed.”
“Well, not being an Irishman,” said Trevanion, “I’m half disposed to
think that even our present purpose is nearly as favourable to life and
limb; but here comes my servant. Well, John, is all arranged, and the
carriage ready?”
Having ascertained that the carriage was in waiting, and that the small
box—brass bound and Bramah-locked—reposed within, we paid our bill and
departed. A cold, raw, misty-looking morning, with masses of dark
louring clouds overhead, and channels of dark and murky water beneath,
were the pleasant prospects which met us as we issued forth from the
Cafe. The lamps, which hung suspended midway across the street, (we
speak of some years since,) creaked, with a low and plaintive sound, as
they swung backwards and forwards in the wind. Not a footstep was heard
in the street—nothing but the heavy patter of the rain as it fell
ceaselessly upon the broad pavement. It was, indeed, a most depressing
and dispiriting accompaniment to our intended excursion: and even
O’Leary, who seemed to have but slight sympathy with external
influences, felt it, for he spoke but little, and was scarcely ten
minutes in the carriage till he was sound asleep. This was, I confess,
a great relief to me; for, however impressed I was, and to this hour
am, with the many sterling qualitites of my poor friend, yet, I
acknowledge, that this was not precisely the time I should have cared
for their exercise, and would have much preferred the companionship of
a different order of person, even though less long acquainted with him.
Trevanion was, of all others, the most suitable for this purpose; and I
felt no embarrassment in opening my mind freely to him upon subjects
which, but twenty-four hours previous, I could not have imparted to a
brother.
There is no such unlocker of the secrets of the heart as the possibly
near approach of death. Indeed, I question if a great deal of the
bitterness the thought of it inspires, does not depend upon that very
circumstance. The reflection that the long-treasured mystery of our
lives (and who is there without some such?) is about to become known,
and the secret of our inmost heart laid bare, is in itself depressing.
Not one kind word, nor one remembrancing adieu, to those we are to
leave for ever, can be spoken or written, without calling up its own
story of half-forgotten griefs or, still worse, at such a moment, of
happiness never again to be partaken of.
“I cannot explain why,” said I to Trevanion, “but although it has
unfortunately been pretty often my lot to have gone out on occasions
like this, both as principal and friend, yet never before did I feel so
completely depressed and low-spirited—and never, in fact, did so many
thoughts of regret arise before me for much of the past, and sorrow for
the chance of abandoning the future”—
“I can understand,” said Trevanion, interrupting—“I have heard of your
prospect in the Callonby family, and certainly, with such hopes, I can
well conceive how little one would be disposed to brook the slightest
incident which could interfere with their accomplishment; but, now that
your cousin Guy’s pretensions in that quarter are at an end, I suppose,
from all I have heard, that there can be no great obstacle to yours.”
“Guy’s pretensions at an end! For heaven’s sake, tell me all you know
of this affair—for up to this moment I am in utter ignorance of every
thing regarding his position among the Callonby family.”
“Unfortunately,” replied Trevanion, “I know but little, but still that
little is authentic—Guy himself having imparted the secret to a very
intimate friend of mine. It appears, then, that your cousin, having
heard that the Callonbys had been very civil to you in Ireland, and
made all manner of advances to you—had done so under the impression
that you were the other nephew of Sir Guy, and consequently the heir of
a large fortune—that is, Guy himself—and that they had never discovered
the mistake during the time they resided in Ireland, when they not only
permitted, but even encouraged the closest intimacy between you and
Lady Jane. Is so far true?”
“I have long suspected it. Indeed in no other way can I account for the
reception I met with from the Callonbys. But is it possible that Lady
Jane could have lent herself to any thing so unworthy.”—
“Pray, hear me out,” said Trevanion, who was evidently struck by the
despondency of my voice and manner. “Guy having heard of their mistake,
and auguring well to himself from this evidence of their disposition,
no sooner heard of their arrival in Paris, than he came over here and
got introduced to them. From that time he scarcely ever left their
house, except to accompany them into society, or to the theatres. It is
said that with Lady Jane he made no progress. Her manner, at the
beginning cold and formal, became daily more so; until, at last, he was
half disposed to abandon the pursuit—in which, by the by, he has since
confessed, monied views entered more than any affection for the
lady—when the thought struck him to benefit by what he supposed at
first to be the great bar to his success. He suddenly pretended to be
only desirous of intimacy with Lady Jane, from having heard so much of
her from you—affected to be greatly in your confidence—and, in fact,
assumed the character of a friend cognizant of all your feelings and
hopes, and ardently desiring, by every means in his power, to advance
your views—”
“And was it thus he succeeded,” I broke in.
“’Twas thus he endeavoured to succeed,” said Trevanion.
“Ah, with what success I but too well know” said I. “My uncle himself
showed me a letter from Guy, in which he absolutely speaks of the
affair as settled, and talks of Lady Jane as about to be his wife.”
“That may be all quite true; but a little consideration of Guy’s
tactics will show what he intended; for I find that he induced your
uncle, by some representations of his, to make the most handsome
proposals, with regard to the marriage, to the Callonbys; and that, to
make the story short, nothing but the decided refusal of Lady Jane, who
at length saw through his entire game prevented the match.”
“And then she did refuse him,” said I, with ill-repressed exultation.
“Of that there can be no doubt; for independently of all the gossip and
quizzing upon the subject, to which Guy was exposed in the coteries, he
made little secret of it himself—openly avowing that he did not
consider a repulse a defeat, and that he resolved to sustain the siege
as vigorously as ever.”
However interested I felt in all Trevanion was telling me, I could not
help falling into a train of thinking on my first acquaintance with the
Callonbys. There are, perhaps, but few things more humiliating than the
knowledge that any attention or consideration we have met with, has
been paid us in mistake for another; and in the very proportion that
they were prized before, are they detested when the truth is known to
us.
To all the depressing influences these thoughts suggested, came the
healing balm that Lady Jane was true to me—that she, at least, however
others might be biassed by worldly considerations—that she cared for
me—for myself alone. My reader (alas! for my character for judgment)
knows upon how little I founded the conviction; but I have often, in
these Confessions, avowed my failing, par excellence, to be a great
taste for self-deception; and here was a capital occasion for its
indulgence.
“We shall have abundant time to discuss this later on,” said Trevanion,
laying his hand upon my shoulder to rouse my wandering attention—“for
now, I perceive, we have only eight minutes to spare.”
As he spoke, a dragoon officer, in an undress, rode up to the window of
the carriage, and looking steadily at our party for a few seconds,
asked if we were “Messieurs les Anglais;” and, almost without waiting
for reply, added, “You had better not go any farther in your carriage,
for the next turn of the road will bring you in sight of the village.”
We accordingly stopped the driver, and having (with) some difficulty
aroused O’Leary, got out upon the road. The militaire here gave his
horse to a groom, and proceeded to guide us through a corn-field by a
narrow path, with whose windings and crossings he appeared quite
conversant. We at length reached the brow of a little hill, from which
an extended view of the country lay before us, showing the Seine
winding its tranquil course between the richly tilled fields, dotted
with many a pretty cottage. Turning abruptly from this point, our guide
led us, by a narrow and steep path, into a little glen, planted with
poplar and willows. A small stream ran through this, and by the noise
we soon detected that a mill was not far distant, which another turning
brought us at once in front of.
And here I cannot help dwelling upon the “tableau” which met our view.
In the porch of the little rural mill sat two gentlemen, one of whom I
immediately recognised as the person who had waited upon me, and the
other I rightly conjectured to be my adversary. Before them stood a
small table, covered with a spotless napkin, upon which a breakfast
equipage was spread—a most inviting melon and a long, slender-necked
bottle, reposing in a little ice-pail, forming part of the “materiel.”
My opponent was cooly enjoying his cigar—a half-finished cup of coffee
lay beside him—his friend was occupied in examining the caps of the
duelling pistols, which were placed upon a chair. No sooner had we
turned the angle which brought us in view, than they both rose, and,
taking off their hats with much courtesy, bade us good morning.
“May I offer you a cup of coffee,” said Monsieur Derigny to me, as I
came up, at the same time filling it out, and pushing over a little
flask of Cogniac towards me.
A look from Trevanion decided my acceptance of the proferred civility,
and I seated myself in the chair beside the baron. Trevanion meanwhile
had engaged my adversary in conversation along with the stranger, who
had been our guide, leaving O’Leary alone unoccupied, which, however,
he did not long remain; for, although uninvited by the others, he
seized a knife and fork, and commenced a vigorous attack upon a
partridge pie near him; and, with equal absence of ceremony, uncorked
the champaign and filled out a foaming goblet, nearly one-third of the
whole bottle, adding—
“I think, Mr. Lorrequer, there’s nothing like showing them that we are
just as cool and unconcerned as themselves.”
If I might judge from the looks of the party, a happier mode of
convincing them of our “free-and-easy” feelings could not possibly have
been discovered. From any mortification this proceeding might have
caused me, I was speedily relieved by Trevanion calling O’Leary to one
side, while he explained to him that he must nominally act as second on
the ground, as Trevanion, being a resident in Paris, might become
liable to a prosecution, should any thing serious arise, while O’Leary,
as a mere passer through, could cross the frontier into Germany, and
avoid all trouble.
O’Leary at once acceded—perhaps the more readily because he expected to
be allowed to return to his breakfast—but in this he soon found himself
mistaken, for the whole party now rose, and preceded by the baron,
followed the course of the little stream.
After about five minutes’ walking, we found ourselves at the outlet of
the glen, which was formed by a large stone quarry, making a species of
amphitheatre, with lofty walls of rugged granite, rising thirty or
forty feet on either side of us. The ground was smooth and level as a
boarded floor, and certainly to amateurs in these sort of matters,
presented a most perfect spot for a “meeting.”
The stranger who had just joined us, could not help remarking our looks
of satisfaction at the choice of ground, and observed to me—
“This is not the first affair that this little spot has witnessed; and
the moulinet of St. Cloud is, I think, the very best ‘meet’ about
Paris.”
Trevanion who, during these few minutes, had been engaged with Derigny,
now drew me aside.
“Well, Lorrequer, have you any recollection now of having seen your
opponent before? or can you make a guess at the source of all this?”
“Never till this instant,” said I, “have I beheld him,” as I looked
towards the tall, stoutly-built figure of my adversary, who was very
leisurely detaching a cordon from his tightly fitting frock, doubtless
to prevent its attracting my aim.
“Well, never mind, I shall manage every thing properly. What can you do
with the small sword, for they have rapiers at the mill?”
“Nothing whatever; I have not fenced since I was a boy.”
“N’importe—then we’ll fight at a barriere. I know they’re not prepared
for that from Englishmen; so just step on one side now, and leave me to
talk it over.”
As the limited nature of the ground did not permit me to retire to a
distance, I became involuntarily aware of a dialogue, which even the
seriousness of the moment could scarcely keep me from laughing at
outright.
It was necessary, for the sake of avoiding any possible legal
difficulty in the result, that O’Leary should give his assent to every
step of the arrangement; and being totally ignorant of French,
Trevanion had not only to translate for him, but also to render in
reply O’Leary’s own comments or objections to the propositions of the
others.
“Then it is agreed—we fight at a barriere,” said the Captain Derigny.
“What’s that, Trevanion?”
“We have agreed to place them at a barriere,” replied Trevanion.
“That’s strange,” muttered O’Leary to himself, who, knowing that the
word meant a “turnpike,” never supposed it had any other signification.
“Vingt quatre pas, n’est pas,” said Derigny.
“Too far,” interposed Trevanion.
“What does he say now?” asked O’Leary.
“Twenty-four paces for the distance.”
“Twenty-four of my teeth he means,” said O’Leary, snapping his fingers.
“What does he think of the length of Sackville-street? Ask him that,
will ye?”
“What says Monsieur?” said the Frenchman.
“He thinks the distance much too great.”
“He may be mistaken,” said the Captain, half sneeringly. “My friend is
‘de la premiere force.’”
“That must be something impudent, from your looks, Mr. Trevanion. Isn’t
it a thousand pities I can’t speak French?”
“What say you, then, to twelve paces? Fire together, and two shots
each, if the first fire be inconclusive,” said Trevanion.
“And if necessary,” added the Frenchman, carelessly, “conclude with
these”—touching the swords with his foot as he spoke.
“The choice of the weapon lies with us, I opine,” replied Trevanion.
“We have already named pistols, and by them we shall decide this
matter.”
It was at length, after innumerable objections, agreed upon that we
should be placed back to back, and at a word given each walk forward to
a certain distance marked out by a stone, where we were to halt, and at
the signal, “une,” “deux,” turn round and fire.
This, which is essentially a French invention in duelling, was
perfectly new to me, but by no means to Trevanion, who was fully aware
of the immense consequence of not giving even a momentary opportunity
for aim to my antagonist; and in this mode of firing the most practised
and deadly shot is liable to err—particularly if the signal be given
quickly.
While Trevanion and the Captain were measuring out the ground, a little
circumstance which was enacted near me was certainly not over
calculated to strengthen my nerve. The stranger who had led us to the
ground had begun to examine the pistols, and finding that one of them
was loaded, turned towards my adversary, saying, “De Haultpenne, you
have forgotten to draw the charge. Come let us see what vein you are
in.” At the same time, drawing off his large cavalry glove, he handed
the pistol to his friend.
“A double Napoleon you don’t hit the thumb.”
“Done,” said the other, adjusting the weapon in his hand.
The action was scarcely performed, when the bettor flung the glove into
the air with all his force. My opponent raised his pistol, waited for
an instant, till the glove, having attained its greatest height, turned
to fall again. Then click went the trigger—the glove turned round and
round half-a-dozen times, and fell about twenty yards off, and the
thumb was found cut clearly off at the juncture with the hand.
This—which did not occupy half as long as I have spent in recounting
it—was certainly a pleasant introduction to standing at fifteen yards
from the principal actor; and I should doubtless have felt it in all
its force, had not my attention been drawn off by the ludicrous
expression of grief in O’Leary’s countenance, who evidently regarded me
as already defunct.
“Now, Lorrequer, we are ready,” said Trevanion, coming forward; and
then, lowering his voice, added, “All is in your favour; I have won the
‘word,’ which I shall give the moment you halt. So turn and fire at
once: be sure not to go too far round in the turn—that is the
invariable error in this mode of firing; only no hurry—be calm.”
“Now, Messieurs,” said Derigny, as he approached with his friend
leaning upon his arm, and placed him in the spot allotted to him.
Trevanion then took my arm, and placed me back to back to my
antagonist. As I took up my ground, it so chanced that my adversary’s
spur slightly grazed me, upon which he immediately turned round, and,
with the most engaging smile, begged a “thousand pardons,” and hoped I
was not hurt.
O’Leary, who saw the incident, and guessed the action aright, called
out:
“Oh, the cold-blooded villain; the devil a chance for you, Mr.
Lorrequer.”
“Messieurs, your pistols,” said Le Capitaine la Garde, who, as he
handed the weapons, and repeated once more the conditions of the
combat, gave the word to march.
I now walked slowly forward to the place marked out by the stone; but
it seemed that I must have been in advance of my opponent, for I
remember some seconds elapsed before Trevanion coughed slightly, and
then with a clear full voice called out “Une,” “Deux.” I had scarcely
turned myself half round, when my right arm was suddenly lifted up, as
if by a galvanic shock. My pistol jerked upwards, and exploded the same
moment, and then dropped powerlessly from my hand, which I now felt was
covered with warm blood from a wound near the elbow. From the acute but
momentary pang this gave me, my attention was soon called off; for
scarcely had my arm been struck, when a loud clattering noise to my
left induced me to turn, and then, to my astonishment, I saw my friend
O’Leary about twelve feet from the ground, hanging on by some ash twigs
that grew from the clefts of the granite. Fragments of broken rock were
falling around him, and his own position momentarily threatened a
downfall. He was screaming with all his might; but what he said was
entirely lost in the shouts of laughter of Trevanion and the Frenchmen,
who could scarcely stand with the immoderate exuberance of their mirth.
I had not time to run to his aid—which, although wounded, I should have
done—when the branch he clung to, slowly yielded with his weight, and
the round, plump figure of my poor friend rolled over the little cleft
of rock, and, after a few faint struggles, came tumbling heavily down,
and at last lay peaceably in the deep heather at the bottom—his cries
the whole time being loud enough to rise even above the vociferous
laughter of the others.
I now ran forward, as did Trevanion, when O’Leary, turning his eyes
towards me, said, in the most piteous manner—
“Mr. Lorrequer, I forgive you—here is my hand—bad luck to their French
way of fighting, that’s all—it’s only good for killing one’s friend. I
thought I was safe up there, come what might.”
“My dear O’Leary,” said I, in an agony, which prevented my minding the
laughing faces around me, “surely you don’t mean to say that I have
wounded you?”
“No, dear, not wounded, only killed me outright—through the brain it
must be, from the torture I’m suffering.”
The shout with which this speech was received, sufficiently aroused me;
while Trevanion, with a voice nearly choked with laughter, said—
“Why, Lorrequer, did you not see that your pistol, on being struck,
threw your ball high up on the quarry; fortunately, however, about a
foot and a half above Mr. O’Leary’s head, whose most serious wounds are
his scratched hands and bruised bones from his tumble.”
This explanation, which was perfectly satisfactory to me, was by no
means so consoling to poor O’Leary, who lay quite unconscious to all
around, moaning in the most melancholy manner. Some of the blood, which
continued to flow fast from my wound, having dropped upon his face,
roused him a little—but only to increase his lamentation for his own
destiny, which he believed was fast accomplishing.
“Through the skull—clean through the skull—and preserving my senses to
the last! Mr. Lorrequer, stoop down—it is a dying man asks you—don’t
refuse me a last request. There’s neither luck nor grace, honor nor
glory in such a way of fighting—so just promise me you’ll shoot that
grinning baboon there, when he’s going off the ground, since it’s the
fashion to fire at a man with his back to you. Bring him down, and I’ll
die easy.”
And with these words he closed his eyes, and straightened out his
legs—stretched his arm at either side, and arranged himself as much
corpse fashion as the circumstances of the ground would permit—while I
now freely participated in the mirth of the others, which, loud and
boisterous as it was, never reached the ears of O’Leary.
My arm had now become so painful, that I was obliged to ask Trevanion
to assist me in getting off my coat. The surprise of the Frenchmen on
learning that I was wounded was very considerable—O’Leary’s catastrophe
having exclusively engaged all attention. My arm was now examined, when
it was discovered that the ball had passed through from one side to the
other, without apparently touching the bone; the bullet and the portion
of my coat carried in by it both lay in my sleeve. The only serious
consequence to be apprehended was the wound of the blood-vessel, which
continued to pour forth blood unceasingly, and I was just surgeon
enough to guess that an artery had been cut.
Trevanion bound his handkerchief tightly across the wound, and assisted
me to the high road, which, so sudden was the loss of blood, I reached
with difficulty. During all these proceedings, nothing could be
possibly more kind and considerate than the conduct of our opponents.
All the farouche and swaggering air which they had deemed the “rigueur”
before, at once fled, and in its place we found the most gentlemanlike
attention and true politeness.
As soon as I was enabled to speak upon the matter, I begged Trevanion
to look to poor O’Leary, who still lay upon the ground in a state of
perfect unconsciousness. Captain Derigny, on hearing my wish, at once
returned to the quarry, and, with the greatest difficulty, persuaded my
friend to rise and endeavour to walk, which at last he did attempt,
calling him to bear witness that it perhaps was the only case on record
where a man with a bullet in his brain had made such an exertion.
With a view to my comfort and quiet, they put him into the cab of Le
Baron; and, having undertaken to send Dupuytrien to me immediately on
my reaching Paris, took their leave, and Trevanion and I set out
homeward.
Not all my exhaustion and debility—nor even the acute pain I was
suffering, could prevent my laughing at O’Leary’s adventure; and it
required all Trevanion’s prudence to prevent my indulging too far in my
recollection of it.
When we reached Meurice’s, I found Dupuytrien in waiting, who
immediately pronounced the main artery of the limb as wounded; and
almost as instantaneously proceeded to pass a ligature round it. This
painful business being concluded, I was placed upon a sofa, and being
plentifully supplied with lemonade, and enjoined to keep quiet, left to
my own meditations, such as they were, till evening—Trevanion having
taken upon him to apologize for our absence at Mrs. Bingham’s dejeune,
and O’Leary being fast asleep in his own apartments.