Dawn broke in a symphony of gorgeous rosy tints, heralding the awakening
of the ardent monarch of the world of light. The waves, their deep
green color variegated with shifting opaline lusters and gleams of
phosphorescent hues, lazily chased one another over the restless sea, to
dash into clouds of joyous spray upon the shining beach.
Signs of life were already apparent in the line of fishing boats on and
near the shore, and shreds of wraith-like smoke were appearing in the
picturesque fishermen’s colony on the inlet. A new day—and a memorable
one—had begun for Mauritius.
In the grove behind the quaint little stone chapel, the principals of
the little drama had already assembled. The Lafittes—Jean, eager, yet
not without a touch of nervousness, and Pierre Dominique, looking rather
too perturbed for a man of the world. Across the little clearing was
Brouillard, tall, heavily built, with pugnaciously twisted mustachios.
A French naval officer—his second—and the resident doctor completed the
little party.
At a word from the knight of the lancets, who was evidently also the
referee, the duelists took their places, back to back, and marched
away ten paces. Pistol in hand, still back to back, they awaited the
physician’s signal. The Mauritian raised his arm for dramatic effect, and
began to count, very solemnly.
“One—
“Two—”
A young girl, hair as yet uncombed, lids still sleep-laden, and panting
heavily, appeared at the head of the path, and ran toward them with
horror-filled eyes. They were too absorbed to see her.
“Three—!”
She was almost upon them, now. So excited were the five men in the tense
scene they were enacting that they failed to notice her footsteps, which
audibly reached them. Simultaneously with the doctor’s next word she
burst among them, exhausted with running, but not before he had cried—
“Fire!”
At the word both turned and fired. Brouillard’s shot was a second
later than Jean’s. Lafitte’s had gone wild, so nervous was he, and he
immediately realized that his doom was imminent. He was at the mercy of
his enemy. But that interim of less than a single second, almost the
briefest timable space, was enough to complete the tragedy. In that
moment Lizette Fondac sprang between them, her body acting as a shield
for Jean, just in time to intercept the bullet meant for him. A moment
later she sank on the turf at Jean’s feet, clutching convulsively at her
bleeding bosom.
With a cry of utter horror, Jean dropped to his knees, holding her close
to him, calling to her, with such an unspeakable anguish in his voice
that Pierre himself, momentarily stunned by the shock, could not hold the
tears back.
Confusion reigned. Villagers, attracted by the sound of the shots, were
now appearing at the head of the path, led by the old curé of the chapel.
Brouillard, with one backward, horrified glance, disappeared into the
forest.
As for Jean, he was as if crazed, pressing Lizette’s still form close to
himself, and babbling mad, incoherent terms of endearment. She had been
almost instantaneously killed. With difficulty he was separated from her
motionless body and led away by his brother.