THE MAITRE D'ARMES
Beyond doubt Colonel John had got himself off the scene with a certain
amount of dignity. But with all that he had done and suffered in the
lands beyond the Baltic and the Vistula, he had not yet become so
perfect a philosopher as to be indifferent to the opinion held of him
by others. He was, indeed, as he retired, as unhappy as a more ordinary
man might have been in the same case. He knew that he was no craven,
that he had given his proofs a score of times. But old deeds and a
foreign reputation availed nothing here. And it was with a deep sense
of vexation and shame that he rode out of the barrack-yard. Why, oh
why! had he been so unlucky as to enter it? He was a man, after all,
and the laughter of the mess-room, the taunts of the bully, burned his
ears.
Nor were his spirits low on his account only. The cruelty of man to
man, the abuse of strength by those who had it, and the pains of those
who had it not, the crookedness of the world in which the weak go to
the wall--thoughts of these things weighed him down. But more, and more
to the purpose, he saw that after what had happened, his chances of
success in the enterprise which had brought him to town, and which was
itself but a means to an end, were lessened. It might not be possible
to pursue that enterprise any farther. This was a mortifying thought,
and accounted for the melancholy face with which he sought the inn, and
supped; now wishing that he had not done this or that, now pondering
how he might turn the flank of a misfortune which threatened to shatter
all his plans.
For if he was anxious to recover the mare, his anxiety did not rest
there. Her recovery was but a step to other things; to that influence
at Morristown which would make him potent for good; to that
consideration which would enable him to expel foolish councils, and
silence that simmering talk of treason which might at any moment boil
up into action and ruin a countryside. But he knew that he could only
get the mare from those who held her by imposing himself upon them; and
to do this after what had happened seemed impossible. The story would
be told, must be told: it would be carried far and wide. Such things
were never hid; and he had come off so ill, as the world viewed things,
he had cut so poor a figure, that after this he could hope for nothing
from his personal influence here or at Morristown. Nothing, unless he
could see himself right at Tralee.
He brooded long over the matter, and at length--but not until after his
meal--he hit on a plan, promising, though distasteful. He called Bale,
and made inquiries through that taciturn man; and next morning he sat
late at his breakfast. He had learned that the garrison used the inn
much, many of the officers calling there for their "morning"; and the
information proved correct. About ten he heard heavy steps in the
stone-paved passage, spurs rang out an arrogant challenge, voices
called for Patsy and Molly, and demanded this or that. By-and-by two
officers, almost lads, sauntered into the room in which he sat, and,
finding him there, moved with a wink and a grin to the window. They
leant out, and he heard them laugh; he knew that they were discussing
him before they turned to the daily fare--the neat ankles of a passing
"colleen," the glancing eyes of the French milliner over the way, or
the dog-fight at the corner. The two remained thus, half eclipsed as
far as the Colonel was concerned, until presently the sallow-faced man
sauntered idly into the room.
He did not see the Colonel at once, but the latter rose and bowed, and
Marsh, a little added colour in his face, returned the salute--with an
indifferent grace. It was clear that, though he had behaved better than
his fellows on the previous day, he had no desire to push the
acquaintance farther.
Colonel John, however, gave him no chance. Still standing, and with a
grave, courteous face, "May I, as a stranger," he said, "trouble you
with a question, sir?"
The two lady-killers at the window heard the words and nudged one
another, with a stifled chuckle at their comrade's predicament. Captain
Marsh, with one eye on them, assented stiffly.
"Is there any one," the Colonel asked, "in Tralee--I fear the chance is
small--who gives fencing lessons?--or who is qualified to do so?"
The Captain's look of surprise yielded to one of pitying comprehension.
He smiled--he could not help it; while the young men drew in their
heads to hear the better.
"Yes," he answered, "there is."
"In the regiment, I presume?"
"He is attached to it temporarily. If you will inquire at the Armoury
for Lemoine, the Maitre d'Armes, he will oblige you, I have no doubt.
But----"
"If you please?" the Colonel said politely, seeing that Marsh
hesitated.
"If you are not a skilled swordsman, I fear that it is not one lesson,
or two, or a dozen, will enable you to meet Captain Payton, if you have
such a thing in your mind, sir. He is but little weaker than Lemoine,
and Lemoine is a fair match with a small-sword for any man out of
London. Brady in Dublin, possibly, and perhaps half a dozen in England
are his betters, but----" he stopped abruptly, his ear catching a
snigger at the window. "I need not trouble you with that," he concluded
lamely.
"Still," the Colonel answered simply, "a long reach goes for much, I
have heard, and I am tall."
Captain Marsh looked at him in pity, and he might have put his
compassion into words, but for the young bloods at the window, who, he
knew, would repeat the conversation. He contented himself, therefore,
with saying rather curtly, "I believe it goes some way." And he turned
stiffly to go out.
But the Colonel had a last question to put to him. "At what hour," he
asked, "should I be most likely to find this--Lemoine, at leisure?"
"Lemoine?"
"If you please."
Marsh opened his mouth to answer, but found himself anticipated by one
of the youngsters. "Three in the afternoon is the best time," the lad
said bluntly, speaking over his shoulder. He popped out his head again,
that his face, swollen by his perception of the jest, might not betray
it.
But the Colonel seemed to see nothing. "I thank you," he said, bowing
courteously.
And re-seating himself, as Marsh went out, he finished his breakfast.
The two at the window, after exploding once or twice in an attempt to
stifle their laughter, drew in their heads, and, still red in the face,
marched solemnly past the Colonel, and out of the room. His seat, now
the window was clear, commanded a view of the street, and presently he
saw the two young bloods go by in the company of four or five of their
like. They were gesticulating, nor was there much doubt, from the
laughter with which their tale was received, that they were retailing a
joke of signal humour.
That did not surprise the Colonel. But when the door opened a moment
later, and Marsh came hastily into the room, and with averted face
began to peer about for something, he was surprised.
"Where the devil's that snuff-box!" the sallow-faced man exclaimed.
"Left it somewhere!" Then, looking about him to make sure that the door
was closed. "See, here sir," he said awkwardly, "it's no business of
mine, but for a man who has served as you say you have, you're a d----d
simple fellow. Take my advice and don't go to Lemoine's at three, if
you go at all."
"No?" the Colonel echoed.
"Can't you see they'll all be there to guy you?" Marsh retorted
impatiently. He could not help liking the man, and yet the man seemed a
fool! The next moment, with a hasty nod, he was gone. He had found the
box in his pocket.
Colonel Sullivan smiled, and, after carefully brushing the crumbs from
his breeches, rose from the table. "A good man," he muttered. "Pity he
has not more courage." The next moment he came to attention, for slowly
past the window moved Captain Payton himself, riding Flavia's mare, and
talking with one of the young bloods who walked at his stirrup.
The man and the horse! The Colonel began to understand that something
more than wantonness had inspired Payton's conduct the previous night.
Either he had been privy from the first to the plot to waylay the
horse; or he had bought it cheaply knowing how it had been acquired;
or--a third alternative--it had been placed in his hands, to the end
that his reputation as a fire-eater might protect it. In any event, he
had had an interest in nipping inquiry in the bud; and, learning who
the Colonel was, had acted on the instant, and with considerable
presence of mind.
The Colonel looked thoughtful; and though the day was fine for
Ireland--that is, no more than a small rain was falling--he remained
within doors until five minutes before three o'clock. Bale had employed
the interval in brushing the stains of travel from his master's
clothes, and combing his horseman's wig with particular care; so that
it was a neat and spruce gentleman who at five minutes before three
walked through Tralee, and, attending to the directions he had
received, approached a particular door, a little within the barrack
gate.
Had he glanced up at the windows he would have seen faces at them;
moreover, a suspicious ear might have caught, as he paused on the
threshold, a scurrying of feet, mingled with stifled laughter. But he
did not look up. He did not seem to expect to see more than he found,
when he entered--a great bare room with its floor strewn with sawdust
and its walls adorned here and there by a gaunt trophy of arms. In the
middle of the floor, engaged apparently in weighing one foil against
another, was a stout, dark-complexioned man, whose light and nimble
step, as he advanced to meet his visitor, gave the lie to his weight.
Certainly there came from a half-opened door at the end of the room a
stealthy sound as of rats taking cover. But Colonel John did not look
that way. His whole attention was bent upon the Maitre d'Armes, who
bowed low to him. Clicking his heels together, and extending his palms
in the French fashion, "Good-morning, sare," he said, his southern
accent unmistakable. "I make you welcome."
The Colonel returned his salute less elaborately. "The Maitre d'Armes
Lemoine?" he said.
"Yes, sare, that is me. At your service!"
"I am a stranger in Tralee, and I have been recommended to apply to
you. You are, I am told, accustomed to give lessons."
"With the small-sword?" the Frenchman answered, with the same gesture
of the open hands. "It is my profession."
"I am desirous of brushing up my knowledge--such as it is."
"A vare good notion," the fencing-master replied, his black beady eyes
twinkling. "Vare good for me. Vare good also for you. Always ready, is
the gentleman's motto; and to make himself ready, his high recreation.
But, doubtless, sare," with a faint smile, "you are proficient, and I
teach you nothing. You come but to sweat a little." An observant person
would have noticed that as he said this he raised his voice above his
usual tone.
"At one time," Colonel John replied with simplicity, "I was fairly
proficient. Then--this happened!" He held out his right hand. "You
see?"
"Ah!" the Frenchman said in a low tone, and he raised his hands. "That
is ogly! That is vare ogly! Can you hold with that?" he added,
inspecting the hand with interest. He was a different man.
"So, so," the Colonel answered cheerfully.
"Not strongly, eh? It is not possible."
"Not very strongly," the Colonel assented. His hand, like Bale's,
lacked two fingers.
Lemoine muttered something under his breath, and looked at the Colonel
with a wrinkled brow. "Tut--tut!" he said, "and how long are you like
that, sare?"
"Seven years."
"Pity! pity!" Lemoine exclaimed. Again he looked at his visitor with
perplexed eyes. After which, "Dam!" he said suddenly.
The Colonel stared.
"It is not right!" the Frenchman continued, frowning. "I--no! Pardon
me, sare, I do not fence with _les estropies_. That is downright! That
is certain, sare. I do not do it."
If the Colonel had been listening he might have caught the sound of a
warning cough, with a stir, and a subdued murmur of voices--all
proceeding from the direction of the inner room. But he had his back to
the half-opened door and he seemed to be taken up with the
fencing-master's change of tone. "But if," he objected, "I am willing
to pay for an hour's practice?"
"Another day, sare. Another day, if you will."
"But I shall not be here another day. I have but to-day. By-and-by," he
continued with a smile as kindly as it was humorous, "I shall begin to
think that you are afraid to pit yourself against a _manchot_!"
"Oh, la! la!" The Frenchman dismissed the idea with a contemptuous
gesture.
"Do me the favour, then," Colonel John retorted. "If you please?"
Against one of the walls were three chairs arranged in a row. Before
each stood a boot-jack, and beside it a pair of boot-hooks; over it,
fixed in the wall, were two or three pegs for the occupant's wig,
cravat, and cane. The Colonel, without waiting for a further answer,
took his seat on one of the chairs, removed his boots, and then his
coat, vest, and wig, which he hung on the pegs above him.
"And now," he said gaily, as he stood up, "the mask!"
He did not see the change--for he seemed to have no suspicion--but as
he rose, the door of the room behind him became fringed with grinning
faces. Payton, the two youths who had leant from the window of the inn
and who had carried his words, a couple of older officers, half a dozen
subalterns, all were there--and one or two civilians. The more grave
could hardly keep the more hilarious in order. The curtain was ready to
go up on what they promised themselves would be the most absurd scene.
The stranger who fought no duels, yet thought that a lesson or two
would make him a match for a dead-hand like Payton--was ever such a
promising joke conceived? The good feeling, even the respect which the
Colonel had succeeded in awakening for a short time the evening before,
were forgotten in the prospect of such a jest.
The Frenchman made no further demur. He had said what he could, and it
was not his business to quarrel with his best clients. He took his
mask, and proffered a choice of foils to his antagonist, whose figure,
freed from the heavy coat and vest of the day, and the overshadowing
wig, seemed younger and more supple than the Frenchman had expected. "A
pity, a pity!" the latter said to himself. "To have lost, if he ever
was professor, the joy of life!"
"Are you ready?" Colonel John asked.
"At your service, sare," the Maitre d'Armes replied--but not with much
heartiness. The two advanced each a foot, they touched swords, then
saluted with that graceful and courteous engagement which to an
ignorant observer is one of the charms of the foil. As they did so, and
steel grated on steel, the eavesdroppers in the inner room ventured
softly from ambush--like rats issuing forth; soon they were all
standing behind the Colonel, the sawdust, and the fencers' stamping
feet as they lunged or gave back, covering the sound of their
movements.
They were on the broad grin when they came out. But it took them less
than a minute to discover that the entertainment was not likely to be
so extravagantly funny as they had hoped. The Colonel was not, strictly
speaking, a tyro; moreover, he had, as he said, a long reach. He was no
match indeed for Lemoine, who touched him twice in the first bout and
might have touched him thrice had he put forth his strength. But he did
nothing absurd. When he dropped his point, therefore, at the end of the
rally, and, turning to take breath came face to face with the gallery
of onlookers, the best-natured of these felt rather foolish. But
Colonel John seemed to find nothing surprising in their presence. He
saluted them courteously with his weapon. "I am afraid I cannot show
you much sport, gentlemen," he said.
One or two muttered something--a good day, or the like. The rest
grinned unmeaningly. Payton said nothing, but, folding his arms with a
superior air, leant, frowning haughtily, against the wall.
"_Parbleu_," said Lemoine, as they rested. "It is a pity. The wrist is
excellent, sare. But the pointing finger is not--is not!"
"I do my best," the Colonel answered, with cheerful resignation. "Shall
we engage again?"
"At your pleasure."
The Frenchman's eye no longer twinkled; his gallantry was on its
mettle. He was grave and severe, fixing his gaze on the Colonel's
attack, and remaining blind to the nods and shrugs and smiles of
amusement of his patrons in the background. Again he touched the
Colonel, and, alas! again; with an ease which, good-natured as he was,
he could not mask.
Colonel John, a little breathed, and perhaps a little chagrined also,
dropped his point. Some one coughed, and another tittered.
"I think he will need another lesson or two," Payton remarked, speaking
ostensibly to one of his companions, but loudly enough for all to hear.
The man whom he addressed made an inaudible answer. The Colonel turned
towards them.
"And--a new hand," Payton added in the same tone.
Even for his henchman the remark was almost too much. But the Colonel,
strange to say--perhaps he really was very simple--seemed to find
nothing offensive in it. On the contrary, he replied to it.
"That was precisely," he said, "what I thought when this"--he indicated
his maimed hand--"happened to me. And I did my best to procure one."
"Did you succeed?" Payton retorted in an insolent tone.
"To some extent," the Colonel replied, in the most matter-of-fact
manner. And he transferred the foil to his left hand.
"Give you four to one," Payton rejoined, "Lemoine hits you twice before
you hit him once."
Colonel John had anticipated some of the things that had happened. But
he had not foreseen this. He was quick to see the use to which he might
put it, and it was only for an instant that he hesitated. Then "Four to
one?" he repeated.
"Five, if you like!" Payton sneered.
"If you will wager," the Colonel said slowly, "if you will wager the
grey mare you were riding this morning, sir----"
Payton uttered an angry oath. "What do you mean?" he said.
"Against ten guineas," Colonel John continued carelessly, bending the
foil against the floor and letting it spring to its length again, "I
will make that wager."
Payton scowled at him. He was aware of the other's interest in the
mare, and suspected, at least, that he had come to town to recover her.
And caution would have had him refuse the snare. But his toadies were
about him, he had long ruled the roast, to retreat went against the
grain; while to suppose that the man had the least chance against
Lemoine was absurd. Yet he hesitated. "What do you know about the
mare?" he said coarsely.
"I have seen her. But of course, if you are afraid to wager her,
sir----"
Payton answered to the spur. "Bah! Afraid?" he cried contemptuously.
"Done, with you!"
"That is settled," the Colonel replied. "I am at your service," he
continued, turning to the Maitre d'Armes. "I trust," indicating that he
was going to fence with his left hand, "that this will not embarrass
you?"
"No! But it is interesting, by G--d, it is vare interesting," the
Frenchman replied. "I have encountered _les gauchers_ before, and----"
He did not finish the sentence, but saluting, he assumed an attitude a
little more wary than usual. He bent his knees a trifle lower, and held
his left shoulder somewhat more advanced, as compared with his right.
The foils felt one another, and "Oh, va, va!" he muttered. "I
understand, the droll!"
For half a minute or so the faces of the onlookers reflected only a
mild surprise, mingled with curiosity. But the fencers had done little
more than feel one another's blades, they had certainly not exchanged
more than half a dozen serious passes, before this was changed, before
one face grew longer and another more intent. A man who was no fencer,
and therefore no judge, spoke. A fierce oath silenced him. Another
murmured an exclamation under his breath. A third stooped low with his
hands on his hips that he might not lose a lunge or a parry. For
Payton, his face became slowly a dull red. At length, "Ha!" cried one,
drawing in his breath. And he was right. The Maitre d'Armes' button,
sliding under the Colonel's blade, had touched his opponent. At once,
Lemoine sprang back out of danger, the two points dropped, the two
fencers stood back to take breath.
For a few seconds the Colonel's chagrin was plain. He looked, and was,
disappointed. Then he conquered the feeling, and he smiled. "I fear you
are too strong for me," he said.
"Not at all," the Frenchman made answer. "Not at all! It was fortune,
sare. I know not what you were with your right hand, but you are with
the left vare strong, of the first force. It is certain."
Payton, an expert, had been among the earliest to discern, with as much
astonishment as mortification, the Colonel's skill. With a sudden
sinking of the heart, he had foreseen the figure he would cut if
Lemoine were worsted; he had endured a moment of great fear. But at
this success he choked down his apprehensions, and, a sanguine man, he
breathed again. One more hit, one more success on Lemoine's part, and
he had won the wager! But with all he could do he could no longer bear
himself carelessly. Pallid and troubled, he watched, biting his lip;
and though he longed to say something cutting, he could think of
nothing. Nay, if it came to that, he could not trust his voice, and
while he still faltered, seeking for a gibe and finding none, the two
combatants had crossed their foils again. Their tense features, plain
through the masks, as well as their wary movements, made it clear that
they played for a victory of which neither was confident.
By this time the rank and file of the spectators had been reinforced by
the arrival of Marsh; who, discovering a scene so unexpected, and
quickly perceiving that Lemoine was doing his utmost, wondered what
Payton's thoughts were. Apart from the wager, it was clear that if
Lemoine had not met his match, the Captain had; and in the future would
have to mend his manners in respect to one person present. Doubtless
many of those in the room, on whose toes Payton had often trodden, had
the same idea, and felt secret joy, pleased that the bully of the
regiment was like to meet with a reverse and a master.
Whatever their thoughts, a quick rally diverted them, and riveted all
eyes on the fencers. For a moment thrust and parry followed one another
so rapidly that the untrained gaze could not distinguish them or trace
the play. The spectators held their breath, expecting a hit with each
second. But the rally died away again, neither of the players had got
through the other's guard; and now they fell to it more slowly, the
Colonel, a little winded, giving ground, and Lemoine pressing him.
Then, no one saw precisely how it happened, whiff-whaff, Lemoine's
weapon flew from his hand and struck the wall with a whirr and a
jangle. The fencing-master wrung his wrist. "_Sacre!_" he cried,
between his teeth, unable in the moment of surprise to control his
chagrin.
The Colonel touched him with his button for form's sake, then stepped
rapidly to the wall, picked up the foil by the blade, and courteously
returned it to him. Two or three cried "Bravo," but faintly, as barely
comprehending what had happened. The greater part stood silent in sheer
astonishment. For Payton, he remained dumb with mortification and
disgust; and if he had the grace to be thankful for anything, he was
thankful that for the moment attention was diverted from him.
Lemoine, indeed, the person more immediately concerned, had only eyes
for his opponent, whom he regarded with a queer mixture of approval and
vexation. "You have been at Angelo's school in Paris, sare?" he said,
in the tone of one who stated a fact rather than asked a question.
"It is true," the Colonel answered, smiling. "You have guessed it."
"And learned that trick from him?"
"I did. It is of little use except to a left-handed man."
"Yet in play with one not of the first force it succeeds twice out of
three times," Lemoine answered. "Twice out of three times, with the
right hand. _Ma foi!_ I remember it well! I offered the master twenty
guineas, Monsieur, if he would teach it me. But because"--he held out
his palms pathetically--"I was right-handed, he would not."
"I am fortunate," Colonel John answered, bowing, and regarding his
opponent with kind eyes, "in being able to requite your good nature. I
shall be pleased to teach it you for nothing, but not now. Gentlemen,"
he continued, giving up his foil to Lemoine, and removing his mask,
"gentlemen, you will bear me witness, I trust, that I have won the
wager?"
Some nodded, some murmured an affirmative, others turned towards
Payton, who, too deeply chagrined to speak, nodded sullenly. How
willingly at that moment would he have laid the Colonel dead at his
feet, and Lemoine, and the whole crew, friends and enemies! He gulped
something down. "Oh, d--n you!" he said, "I give it you! Take the mare,
she's in the stable!"
At that a brother officer touched his arm, and, disregarding his
gesture of impatience, drew him aside. The intervener seemed to be
reminding him of something; and the Colonel, not inattentive, and
indeed suspicious, caught the name "Asgill" twice repeated. But Payton
was too angry to care for minor consequences, or to regard anything but
how he might most quickly escape from the scene of defeat and the eyes
of those who had witnessed his downfall. He shook off his adviser with
a rough hand.
"What do I care?" he answered with an oath. "He must shoe his own
cattle!" Then, with a poor show of hiding his spite under a cloak of
insouciance, he addressed the Colonel. "The mare is yours," he said.
"You've won her. Much good may she do you!"
And he turned on his heel and went out of the armoury.