The road was passable only from Avignon to l’Isle. They covered the nine
miles between the two places in an hour. During this hour Roland, as he
resolved to shorten the time for his travelling companion, was witty
and animated, and their approach to the duelling ground only served to
redouble his gayety. To one unacquainted with the object of this
drive, the menace of dire peril impending over this young man, with
his continuous flow of conversation and incessant laughter, would have
seemed incredible.
At the village of l’Isle they were obliged to leave the carriage.
Finding on inquiry that they were the first to arrive, they entered the
path which led to the fountain.
“Oh! oh!” exclaimed Roland, “there ought to be a fine echo here.” And he
gave one or two cries to which Echo replied with perfect amiability.
“By my faith!” said the young man, “this is a marvellous echo. I know
none save that of the Seinonnetta, at Milan, which can compare with it.
Listen, my lord.”
And he began, with modulations which revealed an admirable voice and an
excellent method, to sing a Tyrolean song which seemed to bid defiance
to the human throat with its rebellious music. Sir John watched Roland,
and listened to him with an astonishment which he no longer took the
trouble to conceal. When the last note had died away among the cavities
of the mountain, he exclaimed:
“God bless me! but I think your liver is out of order.”
Roland started and looked at him interrogatively. But seeing that Sir
John did not intend to say more, he asked:
“Good! What makes you think so?”
“You are too noisily gay not to be profoundly melancholy.”
“And that anomaly astonishes you?”
“Nothing astonishes me, because I know that it has always its reason for
existing.”
“True, and it’s all in knowing the secret. Well, I’m going to enlighten
you.”
“Oh! I don’t want to force you.”
“You’re too polite to do that; still, you must admit you would be glad
to have your mind set at rest about me.”
“Because I’m interested in you.”
“Well, Sir John, I am going to tell you the secret of the enigma,
something I have never done with any one before. For all my seeming good
health, I am suffering from a horrible aneurism that causes me spasms of
weakness and faintness so frequent as to shame even a woman. I spend
my life taking the most ridiculous precautions, and yet Larrey warns me
that I am liable to die any moment, as the diseased artery in my breast
may burst at the least exertion. Judge for yourself how pleasant for
a soldier! You can understand that, once I understood my condition, I
determined incontinently to die with all the glory possible. Another
more fortunate than I would have succeeded a hundred times already.
But I’m bewitched; I am impervious alike to bullets and balls; even the
swords seem to fear to shatter themselves upon my skin. Yet I never miss
an opportunity; that you must see, after what occurred at dinner. Well,
we are going to fight. I’ll expose myself like a maniac, giving my
adversary all the advantages, but it will avail me nothing. Though
he shoot at fifteen paces, or even ten or five, at his very pistol’s
point, he will miss me, or his pistol will miss fire. And all this
wonderful luck that some fine day when I least expect it, I may die
pulling on my boots! But hush I here comes my adversary.”
As he spoke the upper half of three people could be seen ascending the
same rough and rocky path that Roland and Sir John had followed, growing
larger as they approached. Roland counted them.
“Three!” he exclaimed. “Why three, when we are only two?”
“Ah! I had forgotten,” replied the Englishman. “M. de Barjols, as much
in your interest as in his own, asked permission to bring a surgeon, one
of his friends.”
“What for?” harshly demanded Roland, frowning.
“Why, in case either one of you was wounded. A man’s life can often be
saved by bleeding him promptly.”
“Sir John,” exclaimed Roland, ferociously, “I don’t understand these
delicacies in the matter of a duel. When men fight they fight to kill.
That they exchange all sorts of courtesies beforehand, as your ancestors
did at Fontenoy, is all right; but, once the swords are unsheathed or
the pistols loaded, one life must pay for the trouble they have taken
and the heart beats they have lost. I ask you, on your word of honor,
Sir John, to promise that, wounded or dying, M. de Barjols’ surgeon
shall not be allowed to touch me.”
“But suppose, M. Roland--”
“Take it or leave it. Your word of honor, my lord, or devil take me if I
fight at all.”
The Englishman again looked curiously at the young man. His face was
livid, and his limbs quivered as though in extreme terror. Sir John,
without understanding this strange dread, passed his word.
“Good!” exclaimed Roland. “This, you see, is one of the effects of my
charming malady. The mere thought of surgical instruments, a bistoury or
a lance, makes me dizzy. Didn’t I grow very pale?”
“I did think for an instant you were going to faint.”
“What a stunning climax!” exclaimed Roland with a laugh. “Our
adversaries arrive and you are dosing me with smelling salts like a
hysterical woman. Do you know what they, and you, first of all, would
have said? That I was afraid.”
Meantime, the three new-comers having approached within earshot, Sir
John was unable to answer Roland. They bowed, and Roland, with a smile
that revealed his beautiful teeth, returned their greeting. Sir John
whispered in his ear:
“You are still a trifle pale. Go on toward the fountain; I will fetch
you when we are ready.”
“Ah! that’s the idea,” said Roland. “I have always wanted to see that
famous fountain of Vaucluse, the Hippocrene of Petrarch. You know his
sonnet?
“‘Chiari, fresche e dolci acque
Ove le belle membra
Pose colei, che sola a me perdona.’
This opportunity lost, I may never have another. Where is your
fountain?”
“Not a hundred feet off. Follow the path; you’ll find it at the turn of
the road, at the foot of that enormous bowlder you see.”
“My lord,” said Roland, “you are the best guide I know; thanks!”
And, with a friendly wave of the hand, he went off in the direction
of the fountain, humming the charming pastoral of Philippe Desportes
beneath his breath:
“‘Rosette, a little absence
Has turned thine heart from me;
I, knowing that inconstance,
Have turned my heart from thee.
No wayward beauty o’er me
Such power shall obtain;
We’ll see, my fickle lassie,
Who first will turn again.’”
Sir John turned as he heard the modulations of that fresh sweet voice,
whose higher notes had something at a feminine quality. His cold
methodical mind understood nothing of that nervous impulsive nature,
save that he had under his eyes one of the most amazing organisms one
could possibly meet.
The other two young men were waiting for him; the surgeon stood a little
apart. Sir John carried his box of pistols in his hands. Laying it upon
a table-shaped rock, he drew a little key from his pocket, apparently
fashioned by a goldsmith rather than a locksmith, and opened the box.
The weapons were magnificent, although of great simplicity. They
came from Manton’s workshop, the grandfather of the man who is still
considered one of the best gunsmiths in London. He handed them to M.
de Barjols’ second to examine. The latter tried the triggers and played
with the lock, examining to see if they were double-barrelled. They were
single-barrelled. M. de Barjols cast a glance at them but did not even
touch them.
“Our opponent does not know these weapons?” queried M. Valensolle.
“He has not even seen them,” replied Sir John, “I give you my word of
honor.”
“Oh!” exclaimed M. de Valensolle, “a simple denial suffices.”
The conditions of the duel were gone over a second time to avoid
possible misunderstanding. Then, these conditions determined, the
pistols were loaded. They were then placed, loaded, in the box, the box
left in the surgeon’s charge, and Sir John, with the key in his pocket,
went after Roland.
He found him chatting with a little shepherd boy who was herding three
goats on the steep rocky slope of the mountain, and throwing pebbles
into the fountain. Sir John opened his lips to tell Roland that all
was ready; but the latter, without giving the Englishman time to speak,
exclaimed:
“You don’t know what this child has been telling me, my lord! A perfect
legend of the Rhine. He says that this pool, whose depth is unknown,
extends six or eight miles under the mountain, and a fairy, half woman
half serpent, dwells here. Calm summer nights she glides over the
surface of water calling to the shepherds of the mountains, showing
them, of course, nothing more than her head with its long locks and her
beautiful bare shoulders and arms. The fools, caught by this semblance
of a woman, draw nearer, beckoning to her to come to them, while she
on her side signs to them to go to her. The unwary spirits advance
unwittingly, giving no heed to their steps. Suddenly the earth fails
them, the fairy reaches out her arms, and plunges down into her dripping
palaces, to reappear the next day alone. Where the devil did these
idiots of shepherds get the tale that Virgil related in such noble verse
to Augustus and Mecænas?”
He remained pensive an instant, his eyes bent upon the azure depths,
then turning to Sir John:
“They say that, no matter how vigorous the swimmer, none has ever
returned from this abyss. Perhaps were I to try it, my lord, it might be
surer than M. de Barjols’ bullet. However, it always remains as a last
resort; in the meantime let us try the bullet. Come, my lord, come.”
Then turning to the Englishman, who listened, amazed by this mobility
of mind, he led him back to the others who awaited them. They in the
meantime had found a suitable place.
It was a little plateau, perched as it were on a rocky proclivity,
jutting from the mountain side, exposed to the setting sun, on which
stood a ruined castle where the shepherds were wont to seek shelter when
the mistral overtook them. A flat space, some hundred and fifty feet
long, and sixty wide, which might once have been the castle platform,
was now to be the scene of the drama which was fast approaching its
close.
“Here we are, gentlemen,” said Sir John.
“We are ready, gentlemen,” replied M. de Valensolle.
“Will the principals kindly listen to the conditions of the duel?” said
Sir John. Then addressing M. de Valensolle, he added: “Repeat them,
monsieur; you are French and I am a foreigner, you will explain them
more clearly than I.”
“You belong to those foreigners, my lord, who teach us poor Provençals
the purity of our language; but since you so courteously make me
spokesman, I obey you.” Then exchanging bows with Sir John, he
continued: “Gentlemen, it is agreed that you stand at forty paces, that
you advance toward each other, that each will fire at will, and wounded
or not will have the right to advance after your adversary’s fire.”
The two combatants bowed in sign of assent, and with one voice, and
almost at the same moment, they said:
“The pistols!”
Sir John drew the little key from his pocket and opened the box. Then
approaching M. de Barjols he offered it to him open. The latter wished
to yield the choice of weapons to his opponent; but with a wave of his
hand Roland refused, saying in a tone almost feminine in its sweetness:
“After you, M. de Barjols. Although you are the insulted party, you
have, I am told, renounced your advantages. The least I can do is to
yield you this one, if for that matter it is an advantage.”
M. de Barjols no longer insisted. He took one of the two pistols at
random. Sir John offered the other to Roland, who took it, and, without
even examining its mechanism, cocked the trigger, then let it fall at
arm’s-length at his side.
During this time M. de Valensolle had measured forty paces, staking a
cane as a point of departure.
“Will you measure after me?” he asked Sir John.
“Needless, sir,” replied the latter: “M. de Montrevel and myself rely
entirely upon you.”
M. de Valensolle staked a second cane at the fortieth pace.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “when you are ready.”
Roland’s adversary was already at his post, hat and cloak removed.
The surgeon and the two seconds stood aside. The spot had been so well
chosen that neither had any advantage of sun or ground. Roland tossed
off hat and coat, stationed himself forty paces from M. de Barjols,
facing him. Both, one to right the other to the left, cast a glance at
the same horizon. The aspect harmonized with the terrible solemnity of
the scene about to take place.
Nothing was visible to Roland’s right and to M. de Barjols’ left, except
the mountain’s swift incline and gigantic peak. But on the other side,
that is to say, to M. de Barjols’ right and Roland’s left, it was a far
different thing.
The horizon stretched illimitable. In the foreground, the plain, its
ruddy soil pierced on all sides by rocks, like a Titan graveyard with
its bones protruding through the earth. Then, sharply outlined in the
setting sun, was Avignon with its girdle of walls and its vast palace,
like a crouching lion, seeming to hold the panting city in its claws.
Beyond Avignon, a luminous sweep, like a river of molten gold, defined
the Rhone. Beyond the Rhone, a deep-hued azure vista, stretched the
chain of hills which separate Avignon from Nimes and d’Uzes. And far
off, the sun, at which one of these two men was probably looking for the
last time, sank slowly and majestically in an ocean of gold and purple.
For the rest these two men presented a singular contrast. One, with his
black hair, swarthy skin, slender limbs and sombre eyes, was the type of
the Southern race which counts among its ancestors Greeks, Romans, Arabs
and Spaniards. The other, with his rosy skin, large blue eyes, and hands
dimpled like a woman’s, was the type of that race of temperate zones
which reckons Gauls, Germans and Normans among its forebears.
Had one wished to magnify the situation it were easy to believe this
something greater than single combat between two men. One might have
thought it was a duel of a people against another people, race against
race, the South against the North.
Was it these thoughts which we have just expressed that filled Roland’s
mind and plunged him into that melancholy revery.
Probably not; the fact is, for an instant he seemed to have forgotten
seconds, duel, adversary, lost as he was in contemplation of this
magnificent spectacle. M. de Barjols’ voice aroused him from this
poetical stupor.
“When you are ready, sir,” said he, “I am.”
Roland started.
“Pardon my keeping you waiting, sir,” said he. “You should not have
considered me, I am so absent-minded. I am ready now.”
Then, a smile on his lips, his hair lifted by the evening breeze,
unconcerned as if this were an ordinary promenade, while his opponent,
on the contrary, took all the precaution usual in such a case, Roland
advanced straight toward M. de Barjols.
Sir John’s face, despite his ordinary impassibility, betrayed a profound
anxiety. The distance between the opponents lessened rapidly. M. de
Barjols halted first, took aim, and fired when Roland was but ten paces
from him.
The ball clipped one of Roland’s curls, but did not touch him. The young
man turned toward his second:
“Well,” said he, “what did I tell you?”
“Fire, monsieur, fire!” said the seconds.
M. de Barjols stood silent and motionless on the spot where he had
fired.
“Pardon me, gentlemen,” replied Roland; “but you will, I hope, permit me
to be the judge of the time and manner of retaliating. Since I have felt
M. de Barjols’ shot, I have a few words to say to him which I could not
say before.” Then, turning to the young aristocrat, who was pale and
calm, he said: “Sir, perhaps I was somewhat too hasty in our discussion
this morning.”
And he waited.
“It is for you to fire, sir,” replied M. de Barjols.
“But,” continued Roland, as if he had not heard, “you will understand
my impetuosity, and perhaps excuse it, when you hear that I am a soldier
and General Bonaparte’s aide-de-camp.”
“Fire, sir,” replied the young nobleman.
“Say but one word of retraction, sir,” resumed the young officer. “Say
that General Bonaparte’s reputation for honor and delicacy is such that
a miserable Italian proverb, inspired by ill-natured losers, cannot
reflect discredit on him. Say that, and I throw this weapon away to
grasp your hand; for I recognize in you, sir, a brave man.”
“I cannot accord that homage to his honor and delicacy until your
general has devoted the influence which his genius gives him over France
as Monk did--that is to say, to reinstate his legitimate sovereign upon
the throne.”
“Ah!” cried Roland, with a smile, “that is asking too much of a
republican general.”
“Then I maintain what I said,” replied the young noble. “Fire! monsieur,
fire!” Then as Roland made no haste to obey this injunction, he shouted,
stamping his foot: “Heavens and earth! will you fire?”
At these words Roland made a movement as if he intended to fire in the
air.
“Ah!” exclaimed M. de Barjols. Then with a rapidity of gesture and
speech that prevented this, “Do not fire in the air, I beg, or I shall
insist that we begin again and that you fire first.”
“On my honor!” cried Roland, turning as pale as if the blood had left
his body, “this is the first time I have done so much for any man. Go to
the devil! and if you don’t want to live, then die!”
At the same time he lowered his arm and fired, without troubling to take
aim.
Alfred de Barjols put his hand to his breast, swayed back and forth,
turned around and fell face down upon the ground. Roland’s bullet had
gone through his heart.
Sir John, seeing M. de Barjols fall, went straight to Roland and drew
him to the spot where he had thrown his hat and coat.
“That is the third,” murmured Roland with a sigh; “but you are my
witness that this one would have it.”
Then giving his smoking pistol to Sir John, he resumed his hat and coat.
During this time M. de Valensolle picked up the pistol which had escaped
from his friend’s hand, and brought it, together with the box, to Sir
John.
“Well?” asked the Englishman, motioning toward Alfred de Barjols with
his eyes.
“He is dead,” replied the second.
“Have I acted as a man of honor, sir?” asked Roland, wiping away the
sweat which suddenly inundated his brow at the announcement of his
opponent’s death.
“Yes, monsieur,” replied M. de Valensolle; “only, permit me to say this:
you possess the fatal hand.”
Then bowing to Roland and his second with exquisite politeness, he
returned to his friend’s body.
“And you, my lord,” resumed Roland, “what do you say?”
“I say,” replied Sir John, with a sort of forced admiration, “you
are one of those men who are made by the divine Shakespeare to say of
themselves:
“‘Danger and I--
We were two lions littered in one day,
But I the elder.’”