THE MEETING
Bob Malcolm came to see me early in the morning with news that the
count's cartel had been delivered in form. He told me that I might as
well fight the Grand Duke--"For if you kill, Frank, if you kill," says
he, "you'll be in a fortress for life; and if you don't kill, why, then
you're a dead man. Body of a dog, as they say here, you're a dead man
either way." Good Bob was much put about.
I did my best to hearten him. I said that I would take the risk of
Volterra, as I had taken it before, and should do my best to kill the
count. He was, I said, a lying blasphemer whose death would be an act of
justice. Malcolm whistled.
"This is a devilish sharp-set affair," says he; "for that is just how
the marchese put his man's frame of mind. He stipulates, it seems, that
you fight to the death. Look out for him too, Frank," he added. "He is
dangerous. I never liked him; and to-day he looked like a sick wolf."
"Who is your marchese?" I asked without interest.
"Semifonte," says Bob, "and as mad as a March hare." I got up at once. I
said, "I shall kill Count Giraldi."
We met in the Cascine at six o'clock of a foggy morning; the light bad,
the ground heavy from a night's rain. The marchese wore black, I
remember, and looked horrible; a wan, doomed face, a mouth drawn down at
one corner, a slavered, untidy red beard; and those wide fish-eyes of
his which seemed to see nothing. Count Giraldi bore himself gallantly,
as he always did. I was extremely cool.
We stripped and faced each other, the swords were produced and measured;
we saluted, and the count at once began a furious attack. I think that
on any ordinary occasion he would have proved the better man; he was
fully as strong as myself, and as good in the wind--for he lived
temperately; and he had had more experience. But to-day, as I soon
discovered, he was flurried and made mistakes; twice in the first five
minutes I could have disarmed him, and once I very nearly had his life.
He was foolhardy to an extraordinary degree; his eyes were unsteady; it
seemed to me that he was thinking of something else; and before we had
been long engaged I discovered that he was thinking of two things, the
first, his own certain death, the second, the state of mind of the
Marchese Semifonte. My finding out of the second of these made me
resolute to bring about the first of them; otherwise, so wildly was he
at work I don't believe I could have brought myself to kill such a tyro
as he was proving.
The fact which determined me to kill him was this. I had pushed him
vigorously, after parrying with ease half a dozen of his frenzied
attacks--I had pushed him, and he had given ground as usual; but,
although I did not perceive it at the time, in giving way he had worked
back towards his second, who had not budged; so that, as I advanced, I
got to be actually within wounding distance of the marchese. Bob Malcolm
ought to have knocked our swords up, no doubt; but he did not. In the
full tide of my attack, then, when I had my man almost at my mercy, I
felt a sudden and sharp pain in the side, and at the same moment heard
Malcolm's cry, "Ah, bloody villain, none of that!" Almost immediately I
heard the clash of swords, and turning my head for a moment, saw our
seconds engaged. In that same instant of forgetfulness Giraldi was upon
me, lunged furiously and ran his blade through my sword arm. There was
an assassination, planned and nearly achieved!
Red rage now possessed me; I do not believe an angelic messenger could
have stopped me now. Changing my sword hand, I attacked my man, who ran
lightly back to avoid me. I pursued him, I closed with him, we had a
desperate rally for perhaps a minute and a half. I know that I pinked
him twice, for I saw the blood on his shirt; in another few seconds I
had his sword flying out of his hand and himself his full length on the
sward.
There then lay this shameful enemy, traducer of ladies, treacherous
friend, hirer of murderers--why should I spare him? I did not intend it.
I went up to him fully prepared to deal death upon him, fallen though he
were. At that moment I thought that no power of earth or Heaven could
have saved his life. And yet there was one power which could and did:
the power of Aurelia's name.
His pocket-handkerchief was stuck in his waistband; and as I stood above
him full of meditated and most reasonable murder, I happened to see upon
it, in red letters, his cipher; a coronet, and under that the initials
of his name, Amadeo Giraldi. They struck me like the writing on the
wall, as if they had been letters of fire. A. G., I read there--the
letters of Aurelia's virgin name! A. G.--Aurelia Gualandi, untried
maiden of Siena once, innocent of all the evil that men could devise
against her, unsullied rose dropped from the lap of Mary the mother of
us all! Could I dare--could I indeed dare to slay one who bore, though
shamefully, those letters of hers whose perfection I was here to
maintain? I knew that I could not; I lowered my sword.
I looked at him where he lay, perfectly still, calm now, with his black
eyes fixed upon mine. I said, "I hope that you are prepared for justice,
Count Giraldi, at my hands."
He replied with a smile, "I am prepared for anything, my dear sir. Least
of all, perhaps, for justice at this moment."
"It is what you least deserve," I said, "since it is what you practise
least; but there are circumstances at work in your favour. You must,
however, confess yourself a liar. That is indispensable. Come now, what
do you say?" At this moment Malcolm came back with a red sword.
"I have paid him in his own coin," he said, "but I think we had best be
off."
"Go, my dear Malcolm," I told him. "Do not delay a moment. I shall not
leave Florence in any case."
"Are you mad, my dear?" he cried. I said that I had no notion whether I
was mad or not; but that I had work to do in Florence, and intended to
finish it. I persuaded him at last to get away to Lucca at once, where I
hoped to join him. The doctor came up to report Semifonte quite dead.
I returned to the count, who said to me, "Every man over forty is, and
must be, a liar, since, in a sense, his very existence is a lie. If it
will satisfy you, I will assure you that I am over forty."
I accepted that periphrasis. "And now," I said, "I will tell you to whom
you owe your life. It is to that lady whom you have dared to traduce--to
her and no other. I gather that you will not repeat your slander."
"I promise you that, sir," said he. "But I am curious to learn how Donna
Aurelia can have interceded."
"Her name in maidenhood," I said, "was Aurelia Gualandi. There upon your
handkerchief I read her initials, 'A. G.'"
"The handkerchief is my own, I swear it!" he cried with passion. "Will
you make the merest coincidence accuse her again? Shame upon you, sir."
"Never in the world," said I. "I never doubted but it was your own. The
cipher saved you, not the handkerchief."
I suppose that he was too faint by now to understand me, for he only put
his hand up and shook it to and fro. "Exquisite fool!" I heard him say,
and then with a groan, "Gesu, I die!" he fainted in earnest. I helped
the surgeon carry him to his coach, then walked to my lodging, leaving
the marchese astare at the trees.