A COMBAT WITH THE RAPIERS.
But it was fated that Nick Carter was not to proceed at once to the tower
of the castle.
The distance from where he turned again toward the front of the building,
to that part of it which might properly be called the tower, was some
hundreds of feet, and he had gone not more than half the distance when,
just as he was passing a door, it was opened suddenly and a man stepped
out upon the corridor, confronting him.
It would be difficult to determine which of the two was the more greatly
surprised by the encounter, but it was certainly the detective who
recovered from it first.
The man who confronted him paused in amazement. Then, when he perceived
Nick was a stranger, he opened his mouth to cry out something. But on
that instant Nick leaped forward. As he did so, the man started backward,
with the cry still unuttered.
His step backward avoided the blow he would have received, but not all
the consequences of it, for the detective, perceiving in time that his
hand would fall short of reaching the fellow, altered his intention and
turned his onslaught into a rush, so that his two hands fell upon the
man’s chest, and he was thrown backward into the room where the detective
followed him with a bound.
He closed the door almost with the same motion with which he had passed
through it, and then, with his back against it, calmly drew his revolver
while the man was rising from the floor, where he had fallen.
“Who the devil are you?” demanded the man, in French. “_Sacre, mon ami_,
but that is an odd way you have of making your presence known. And why,
monsieur, do you make use of the revolver?”
“Merely to convince you of the wisdom of preserving silence,” replied
Nick, smiling grimly.
“Silence?” The Frenchman chuckled audibly. “My dear sir, one might yell
his lungs loose here, and not be heard inside an adjoining room. These
walls were made to withstand sieges. And, besides, if I may venture to
inquire, wherefore should I offer to cry out? Eh?”
The Frenchman had stepped back, and Nick saw that he was evidently a
character; and he realized, moreover, that the man had not the least idea
that he himself was an intruder in the castle. Then, as if to confirm him
in that opinion, the man added:
“Ha! I understand. I comprehend monsieur’s tendencies—his wish. It is to
fight; no?”
The detective could not avoid a smile, but he made no other reply.
“Ha! I have guessed it,” continued the Frenchman, rubbing his hands
together ecstatically. “It is to fight with me that monsieur comes here
at this hour. Monsieur is a guest of Count Jean. Perhaps monsieur came to
the château on board the yacht with the count. Is it not so? Yes? And the
count has told monsieur about Antoine Lafetre. No? It is so; no? Yes? And
monsieur has not the belief that Antoine is the greatest fencing-master
of the age. Ha! Monsieur has come to witness a proof of it, perhaps.
Believe me, monsieur shall be gratified. Monsieur shall be convinced.
Yes!”
Nick Carter permitted him to run on without interruption, for the
fellow’s prattle told him at once many things he desired to know, the
most important of which was the fact that Count Jean de Cadillac had in
reality arrived at the château in the _Shadow_ and was now inside the
castle.
It told him, also, that here before him was a conceited Frenchman, by
profession a fencing-master, who considered himself the “greatest that
ever was.” A person who had not an idea beyond the horizon of his own
egotism; but, above all, a person who, if Nick could win his confidence,
would impart all the information he possessed.
And so, without hesitation, he at once assumed the part for which the
French fencing-master cast him. He shrugged his own shoulders in true
French fashion, and having returned the revolver to the side pocket of
his coat, he raised his eyes, turned out the palms of his hands and
replied:
“Yes. I have heard that you, Monsieur Antoine, have some idea of fence,
but—parbleu!—it is nothing to what I can do. Monsieur Antoine has not
the requisite strength of the wrist; not the quickness of the eye; not
the nimbleness of the feet upon the floor; not the touch, the curve, the
twist, the reach with the arm; not the——”
“So? Is it so? Does the monsieur believe what he says to be true? Ha! It
is a relish that you have brought to me, monsieur. I will instruct you in
the fence; no? Yes! You shall see. Will the monsieur be kind enough to
step this way?”
This room, like the other which Nick had seen, was large. It was
evidently the home of the fencing-master, for the walls were covered
with foils, swords, rapiers, broadswords, battle-axes, staves,
dueling-pistols, masks, gauntlets, chest-shields, shoulder-pads—in short,
everything was there which belonged to the arts of offense and defense
with the blade.
At one end of the room was a raised section, which extended, perhaps,
an inch above the surface of the floor, and this was filled with fine,
white sand; and it was toward this spot that the Frenchman conducted the
detective.
“Look,” said the fencing-master, pointing toward some hooks against the
wall. “If monsieur will divest himself of his coat; so. Ah! It is a
pleasure, a relish that monsieur has brought to me. I will produce my
most superb foils——”
“Foils!” exclaimed Nick, with some outward show of contempt. “Rapiers, if
you please. The foils are for children.”
“Ha! It is magnificent! It is glorious! But we fence, then, not for
death? No? For the little touch of the master; is it not so? Yes? For
the little twinge at the lobe of the ear; for the prick like a pin-point
at the nipple of the breast. Ha! Grand! Magnificent! Monsieur has the
true idea. Foils are for children. The fence shall not be seriously
to wound the opponent, then? No? No! It shall be to draw the spot of
blood, like the glow of a ruby, one, two, three times? Yes! Three times
in succession. Ha! If you do that, you shall be the victor. _En garde,
monsieur!_”
While the Frenchman was talking he was also preparing himself for the
combat, and every nerve in his lithe body seemed to be alive with joy at
the prospect. Egotism is the first requisite for a fencing-master.
Nick Carter excelled in the art of fence, as he did in all other
exercises of self-defense. In his youth his father had neglected none of
these requirements in preparing the son for his career, and he was as
perfect in the use of the foil, the rapier, the broadsword, the staves,
and all weapons of the kind as he was with rifle or revolver. Then, add
to the perfection of science the wonderful strength which reposed in his
muscles, and any fencer will tell you that nothing on earth should be
able to defeat him.
And so the two faced each other, smiling; Nick calm, confident,
reposeful; the Frenchman alert, eager, and thrilling with pleasure. It is
no child’s play to fence with needle-pointed rapiers without delivering
or receiving a serious wound, and only the most expert of fencers would
dare to undertake it.
Like all fencers, when they begin a combat, these two felt of one
another’s strength of wrist, celerity of action, keenness of guard and
thrust, and foot movement; and after a few parries the Frenchman leaped
back out of reach for a moment, while he lowered the point of his weapon
and exclaimed:
“La, la! But it is magnificent. Grande! Glorious! Monsieur is a foeman
worthy to meet the best. He has the strength of wrist—ah! And the foot
movement—yes! But I will show him that he has met one who is greater than
he. _En garde, monsieur!_”
Both had done the “feeling,” and they now went at the combat seriously;
and Nick, feeling that the time was, perhaps, short, if he was to
accomplish all he wished to do that night, determined to win out as soon
as possible.
He therefore attacked the Frenchman like a cyclone. He seemed to cover
himself with steel; his weapon glinted like a thousand gems through the
air, darting in and out like flashes of lightning, forming a perfect
shield around his head and breast, and, at the same time, dancing through
the guard of his opponent with every thrust he made. And yet, for a long
time he got no nearer to the master than that. The Frenchman was really
superb in the practise of his art. He was a master of it; but he was not
a master of the man who stood in front of him like a granite pillar,
suddenly infused with the animation of a spirit and the strength of a
Hercules.
After a few moments of this furious attack, Nick saw that his opponent
was giving ground. He realized that the pace was telling upon him, and
that his own superior strength was overpowering his adversary.
The Frenchman was rapidly tiring. Once he leaped back to avoid a thrust,
and would have called for a rest had not Nick laughingly guyed him by
asking calmly if he were tired.
Lafetre was tired; but he would sooner have died then and there than to
have confessed it, and he returned to the game with redoubled energy.
But although the will was there, the steam to keep it going was not. His
wrist was tired. The strength of Nick’s arm had strained it more than
he would have believed possible before “monsieur” entered the room so
strangely.
Then, suddenly, the detective discovered his opportunity. He stepped
forward quickly, almost inside the Frenchman’s guard; and then——
Thrust, thrust—parry—thrust.
His weapon darted out like the tongue of a toad in three quick flashes of
light. The first of these touched and half-pierced the Frenchman’s right
ear; the second performed the same service for the left one; the third
pinked him on the breast, so that a little spot of blood, not larger than
a pea, appeared suddenly upon the surface of the hitherto spotless linen.
And then, before the Frenchman had time to utter a word, the detective
turned his rapier in a circle, caught the other under the hand-guard and
tore it from the fencing-master’s hand, so that in another instant it
fell clattering at the opposite side of the room.
For a moment Lafetre seemed utterly dazed by what had happened; and then,
with a cry, he leaped forward, fell upon his knees at Nick’s feet, and,
seizing his hands in his own, kissed them rapturously.
“Magnificent!” he cried. “Never have I seen such fence! Ah, monsieur, I
am your slave henceforth. You have the wrist of steel, the quickness of
lightning, the eye of omnipotence. It is my first defeat, monsieur, but
it is a victory even to have had the honor to fence with one so great.
Command me. I am your servant. Your slave, from this hour.”