THE FIRST MEETING.
A day or two after the interview between Debrasques and his cousin,
Andrew Vause sat in his tent, for the four English-speaking
regiments--namely, those under Churchill and Colonel Littleton, who
commanded the Duke of Monmouth's Foot, and those commanded
respectively by Hamilton and Lord Douglas--were not cantoned in the
villages which had escaped destruction by the flames, but were under
canvas around Ladenburg and Gross-Saxen. Indeed, so furious were the
members of the auxiliary forces, which Charles had sent to help his
brother monarch, at the manner in which scores of their comrades had
been treated by the people of the Palatinate in their mad revenge,
that Turenne wisely billeted them where there was no more property to
be destroyed. Already this wanton destruction had led to much outcry
against the Marshal, and also to a challenge to him to fight a duel
from Charles Louis, the Elector-Palatine; and, hampered and annoyed as
he was by shortness of men and continued reproaches from Louvois, the
Minister of War in Paris, he was desirous now that, outside actual
warfare with the Imperialists, there should be no more horrors
perpetrated than necessary.
Before Andrew, on a common wooden table at which he sat, there lay a
sheet of paper on which he had written at the bottom, with as great
legibility as possible, his name in large clear characters, and this
paper he was now perusing for the second or third time ere folding it
and affixing a seal thereto.
"Yes," he murmured to himself. "Yes; it should suffice. The disguise
is flimsy, 'tis true, but the name tells all. If he is not a cur
'twill do very well," and again he read it over. It ran as follows:--
"To Monsieur le Vicomte de Bois-Vallée, of the bodyguard of the
Vicomte de Turenne, Marshal-General of the King's Armies.
"Sir,--Your fame as a swordsman is so widespread that it has reached
my ears and inspired me with a desire to have evidence thereof, being
myself considered no mean wielder of the blade. As brother officers in
the same army may I, therefore, humbly beg that you will give me proof
of your cleverness. The weapon I usually carry is in length forty
inches, but in Paris, ere joining my present regiment, I purchased two
others, one being of the length in blade of thirty-six inches, and the
other of thirty-eight. As I do not doubt that, in your courtesy, you
will not refuse this favour to a brother swordsman, I will await you,
sir, at either sunrise or sunset at any retired spot you may honour me
by naming, and will attend either alone or with a second as you may
direct. And I have the honour to subscribe myself, Monsieur le
Vicomte,
"Your most humble servitor,
"ANDREW VAUSE,
"Attached as volunteer to the Royal English Regiment, commanded by
Colonel John Churchill."
Then, having sent the document off by what he knew was a sure hand,
Andrew sat down and waited for the reply of De Bois-Vallée.
But several days passed, yet none came, and, at last, Andrew growing
impatient (for now it was rumoured that there must be another battle
ere long, and he knew that the chance of war might rob him of his
vengeance by removing him or the Vicomte from each other's path), he
set about inditing another epistle. This time it was more laconic.
"Sir," he now wrote, "owing doubtless to the attention demanded from
you by your duty, I have received no answer to my request for a trial
of our skill at swordplay. With much respect I still await that
answer," and he concluded his letter with the usual ceremonial
flourishes.
Yet still some days passed by and no answer came, so that Andrew
thought he would once more be forced to take up his quill, while all
the time his great hand was itching to grasp one of the weapons on
which his eyes lovingly reposed as they stood in a bundle in a corner
of the room. Then, one night, as he returned to his tent after going
the rounds, and after also stopping to drink a glass or so of ratafia
with some of his brother officers, many of whom were old comrades, he
found lying on his table a letter--a letter with a great seal upon it,
on which was a vicomte's coronet and a coat-of-arms, and which he tore
open eagerly.
Yet it was unsatisfactory, as he saw in a moment, though such was not
the description that the soldier applied to the writer of the document
while he perused it, but rather such words as "Cur" and "Craven."
The communication was prefaced and concluded as Andrew's own
challenges had been, with all necessary politeness and ceremony, yet
it simply conveyed to him the fact that De Bois-Vallée refused to meet
him.
"As you are aware," it said, "duelling is forbidden to officers on
active service; even the Marshal himself was forced to refuse to meet
the Elector-Palatine. Nor, since I cannot think, sir, that it is
simply a trial of skill which you desire, can I consent to meet you at
this present moment. Later on I hope I may be accorded that honour."
Then, hot with passion, Andrew, before seeking his bed from which his
duties would necessitate his rising ere the dawn, sat down and
scratched off one more letter.
"Sir," he wrote, "if you do not meet me within forty-eight hours, I
will affront you so publicly before some of your own officers that you
shall be forced to draw on the instant. And, if that suffice not, I
will there and then bodily chastise you, while, for justification, I
will publicly proclaim your conduct in England to my late brother,
Philip Vause, and the lady to whom he was betrothed. To-morrow night I
shall attend at seven o'clock in the glade a few minutes' walk west of
the burnt church, and also on the following night. Each night for an
hour. I counsel you to come."
"Wait," he said in the morning to the soldier-servant who attended on
him, and who was about to proceed to Turenne's quarters with the
letter half an hour after daybreak, "wait for an answer by word of
mouth. Yes or No. Those who take the letter from your hand can bring
you back the reply. Remember, by word of mouth."
Then he went forth to a hard day's duty with the regiment, which was
under orders to be ready at any moment to strike its tents and march
in all probability towards the defile of Rhinzabern, and did not
return again until the evening.
By that time he knew that the opportunity for the Vicomte to avoid him
no longer existed; the order had gone forth that day that the
remainder of the army would possibly not move till the following week.
De Bois-Vallée could not, therefore, escape thus, as Andrew had feared
he would be able to do if the rout had been set for that night.
"He is mine. Mine," he said to himself as he strode to his tent. "Mine
if only I have pricked him into consent. He cannot avoid me now. I
will have him somehow, even though he should again refuse to meet me."
For that De Bois-Vallée could emerge triumphant from this "trial of
skill" he never believed; nay, gave no thought to. _Maître d'armes_ or
not, as he might be, Andrew Vause felt sure that, once point to point
with him, he would avenge his brother.
His man met him at the door, and, in answer to the hasty question,
"Well, what reply?" said, "the reply, sir, is 'Yes. To-night,'" and,
as a glow of satisfaction rose to his master's bosom, the servant
continued, "Also, there is this for you, sir," and produced a letter
with, again, the great seal on it.
"You force this upon me," it ran, "therefore the outcome is on your
own head. I choose swords of the length of thirty-eight inches. I
shall come alone, as I do not desire to be punished for your death."
Andrew had smiled but little since he saw Philip's coffin lowered into
the grave by the side of his mother and father, nor had he made many
of the jokes he loved since that day, yet he smiled now so pleasantly
that his servant, who strongly suspected a duel to be lurking beneath
all this fetching and carrying of letters and messages, began to think
he was mistaken, and went to his night quarters quite cheerfully. Yet,
ere he departed, he asked his master if he desired to be awakened as
usual half an hour before daybreak--the question being put as much
with a desire to see if it would be answered with any shadow of doubt
attached to it, as to know his duty.
"Ay," said Andrew quietly, "or maybe a little earlier. And have all my
necessaries ready for our departure. We shall most like strike tent
to-morrow."
After which reply the man went away, thinking what a fool he had been
to suppose that people would be killing each other when there was an
enemy of twice their own force close at hand to do it for them.
Left alone, Andrew picked out the rapier--a deep cup-hilted one--whose
size De Bois-Vallée had suggested, and tested it severely against the
floor and wall, bending it against each until it must have broken had
it not been of the finest-tempered steel; also he examined carefully
its hilt and quillon to see that all was secure and firm.
"I must give my friend no chance," he thought; "a broken blade, a
loosened hilt, and--poof!--good-night to Andrew Vause!"
So, satisfied that all was well with the weapon, he rubbed it
carefully on his sleeve, and, returning it to its black leather
scabbard, went forth with it behind his back.
The glade near the burnt church which some of Hamilton's men had fired
a week ago--wherefore two were now hanging by Turenne's orders to a
yew tree outside it--was very peaceful in the glow of the summer
sunset, and here, at least, except for the view of the ruined church
through the trees that bordered the grassy space, there were no signs
of the devastation of the land. Above, the rooks were cawing as though
no such thing as powder and ball had ever disturbed them, and now and
again a rabbit or two, which had escaped the general pillage and
search for food, ran away at the sound of Andrew's footsteps on the
soft springy turf, whisking the underwhite of their tails before his
eyes.
"A better spot for love-making than for killing," he thought to
himself; "for an arm to fold itself around a maiden's waist, than to
press down a scoundrel's guard--ah! here comes the scoundrel himself,"
and he took off his hat with great courtesy to the Vicomte de
Bois-Vallée, who strode towards him.
The latter seemed, however, to have exhausted his politeness in the
letters he had written, and, without deigning any reply to the other's
salutation, instantly divested himself of his coat, while he unlooped
the sheath from which he had already drawn his weapon, and threw it
down on top of the garment. Yet, as he did so, he gave an astonished
glance at the form of the man before him, and at his great sinewy
limbs. Perhaps he had heard from the woman who had betrayed Philip how
slight and delicate a man he was, and wondered that this other, who
was of the same flesh and blood, should be so strong and powerful!
"I have but one question to ask," he said, as he stood now before
Andrew, "a usual one in our country when one honours a stranger by
crossing swords with him. You are, I presume, of gentle blood?"
"I am Philip Vause's brother. And he was of sufficiently gentle blood
for you to steal his future wife from him like a thief."
"Enough," the Vicomte said, while his face became suffused. "Enough. I
am at your service."
"And," continued Andrew, "had we been of the commonest clay our
country owns, I should still carry out my determination of punishing
such a thief."
Without another word their swords crossed, and as they did so Andrew
was surprised at the reckless fury of the man before him. Was this the
_maître d'armes_, the renowned _escrimeur_; this man who fought more
like a hot-headed boy than a practical swordsman, cool and wary! Yet,
Andrew reflected--as he parried thrust after thrust with his wrist of
steel, and waited his turn, which would come soon if the Vicomte
spent himself thus--doubtless the epithet of "thief" had roused
him--precisely as he had meant that it should do.
Gradually, too, he edged his opponent round so that the rays of the
setting sun, which had been in his own eyes when the conflict began,
would, in another moment, be in those of his adversary; but this
advantage he could not obtain altogether, since the Frenchman
perceived his intention in an instant and endeavoured to drive Andrew
back to his original position. As well might he, however, have
endeavoured to drive back a rock from the earth it was set in!
Andrew's feet were firm upon the turf, and, henceforth, they fought
with the sun's rays athwart them, and not favouring one more than the
other.
Watching De Bois-Vallée with an eye like a hawk's and parrying thrust
after thrust, he saw upon the other's forehead the moisture coming and
the drops gathering, and then, for the first time, he let his own
weapon shoot out, after thrusting the Vicomte's last lunge away from
him with another twist of his wrist. He missed his mark, it was true,
since the sword's point tore but an inch out of the cambric of the
other's shirt above his left shoulder, but the rip of the material
under his ear told De Bois-Vallée the danger he was in. The cool
Englishman before him was deadly, he recognized, otherwise how had the
point reached to where it did? He had calculated the other could not
come within half a foot of him.
"I will take it a little lower next time, monsieur," Andrew said
quietly. "It is a charming pass when properly made!"
But at his words the furious thrusts of his opponent ceased. The
Vicomte was a different man. Softly his blade now glided up and down
the other's, and Andrew knew that he was going to experience a real
taste of his antagonist's skill--he would learn a new pass in a
moment.
And in a moment he did learn it. High up near his own hilt crept
the other's sword, then he disengaged, feinted once, and--a second
later--his rapier had slit the Englishman's waistcoat outside his left
ribs, had passed within four inches of his heart. But, since it was
four inches, it might as well have been a mile!
"Ha!" said Andrew as the other recovered himself, and, jumping back
out of reach, glared at him, "a pretty _botte_. And worth knowing--as
I know it now. But, monsieur, you should have been sure of it, or made
no attempt. It will serve you no more." And with great suavity he
said, "Monsieur is perhaps ready to recommence?"
"He is implacable," De Bois-Vallée thought to himself. "Curse him, he
knows as much as I!" and he felt creeping over him a horrible dread.
He began to fear he had fought his last duel--that in a few moments
more he would be stretched gasping on the grass with his life ebbing
away. Yet he nerved himself--such qualms and apprehensions as these,
he knew, were fatal--and again their swords crossed.
There was no recklessness now in either combatant, no thrust made
heedlessly or thrown away; instead a devilish, cruel determination in
each man to strike firm and sure when next he struck at all, through
heart or lung. Their weapons clashed no longer, but hissed and scraped
softly against each other; once the Frenchman tried his _botte_ again,
failing utterly this time, and once Andrew's blade darted forth like
an adder's tongue, failing in its turn, but ripping an inch of flesh
from his opponent's side.
He saw, though, that De Bois-Vallée's lips were flaky with slight
streaks of foam now; he saw the smallest bead of that foam fall from
his nether lip and drop upon his shirt, making a damp spot--a bead
that, when there, looked darker than the white cambric--just above
where his heart was.
"A target," he said to himself, "a mark. I will take him on that
spot."
And, henceforth, his eye never left that mark, and his rapier's point
sought it alone. Suddenly he thought he had found it! Nerved to
desperation, De Bois-Vallée thrust in tierce, disengaged, and thrust
again, and a moment afterwards, with a hoarse cry, staggered forward
against Andrew, letting his weapon fall to the ground, and clutching
at the grass with his hands as he dropped face downwards.
"Humph!" said Andrew, bending over him, after plucking a long wisp of
grass from a tussock growing near, and wiping his rapier with it. "I
have missed after all. It will have to be done over again." And as he
rolled his late opponent on to his back, he muttered, "My eyes are
failing me, or is't the evening light? I could have sworn I was
through his heart, and I have but taken him in the shoulder. The hilt
of my sword banging up against him has hurt him as much as the passage
of the sword itself. Yet, 'twas a good blow, too! Clean through bone
and muscle from point to haft."
"This will not kill him," he reflected, almost savagely for him, as he
loosened his enemy's lace neckerchief, "though the night air may--if I
leave him here. If--I leave him here!" And, as he so thought, he knew
he could not do that--could not leave him there to bleed to death, or
stiffen in the night dews.
"I must fetch someone," he reflected, "even some of these poor boors
whom we have desolated, and send him back to quarters. I have a gold
piece or two--they will serve."
And full of this resolve he turned to leave the glade and seek for
assistance. Yet, ere he went, he threw the wounded man's rich laced
coat over him, leaving his face free so that he might inhale the air,
and bent over him to make sure that he was not in truth dead. Doing
so, he saw that the eyes were open, staring up to the heavens, but
with no glassiness about them, and that his lips moved. Moved and
uttered something, too; something that seemed like the word "Marion."
"Ay, Marion," repeated Andrew. "Marion. After you, I have next to make
my account with her. But how? How to do that? 'Twill be the harder
task."