About sixty years ago I was in Paris for the first time in my life.
Bonaparte still lingered at St Helena; and the adventurers, good, bad,
and indifferent in character, who had served in his armies had not yet
lost all hope of the return of their idol, and consequently had not yet
thought it worth while to settle down into thorough peace and quietness.
Young Paul Ferrand, whom I frequently met at the café, and who had
served as a captain at Waterloo, was sure that the Little Corporal
would come back again soon. 'You have not yet beaten him,' he would
tell me laughing. 'You sent him to Elba, but he returned; you have sent
him to St Helena, and he will return again. We shall see.'
Ferrand was an exceedingly nice fellow; and although he professed to
cherish an unquenchable hatred for England and everything English, he
had, by some means or other, become attached to Alice Rae, a young
English lady of my acquaintance, and who had been living with her
mother since the conclusion of peace at Paris, not far from the abode
of the ex-captain. And he was always very friendly with me too. He
would, it is true, abuse my countrymen most unmercifully; but he was
always particularly good-natured; and whenever he found himself saying
a little too much, he would arrest himself and apologise so heartily,
that I never could be angry with him. I was alone in the French
capital, and had few friends there except Mrs Rae, her daughter Alice,
and Paul; and so it happened that I passed a good deal of my time in
the society of these three. The mother, a woman still in the prime of
life, and the widow of a king's messenger, was a connection of mine by
marriage, and that fact gave me a good excuse for offering my services
as escort whenever she and her pretty daughter thought fit to go to
the theatre or the opera. At such times Paul always had a seat in the
stalls; and between the acts he would come up to my box, to the delight
of Alice, who was in love with him, and to the no small satisfaction
of Mrs Rae, who herself had quite a maternal affection for the young
Frenchman, and did not in the least discourage his attentions to her
daughter. If there were no formal engagement between the two, it was at
least perfectly understood by all parties that as soon as Paul should
get an appointment, for which at the time he was a candidate, he was to
marry Alice; and I, though only a few years her senior, was to give her
away.
One night the opera-house was crowded more than usual. A great singer
was to appear, and a new work by a renowned composer was to be
performed. But Paul Ferrand, sitting in the stalls, seemed scarcely
to listen to the music or to notice the acting; and much more often
were his eyes turned in the direction of my box than in that of the
stage. Alice and her mother were with me; and as the curtain fell at
the conclusion of the first act, Paul came up to us. He was in high
spirits, for he had heard that the minister had decided to give him
the coveted post, and he expected to hear in a few days that his
appointment had been signed by the king. We congratulated him; and as
he left us to return to his seat, I whispered to him: 'You'll be a
happy man in a month or two now, Paul.' He smiled, and shut the door.
We watched him as he threaded his way to his place. It was in the
centre of the second row from the orchestra, and he had left his
opera-glasses on the chair, in order to preserve his right to it;
but during his absence a tall, military-looking man had appropriated
it, and had coolly put the glasses on one side. Paul approached the
stranger with the utmost politeness, and I suppose, for naturally I
could not hear, requested him to move. The interloper did not deign
to answer, but sneeringly looked up at Ferrand, as though to ask him
what he meant by his intrusion. Paul pointed to the opera-glasses; but
the stranger neither replied nor moved, but continued to appear as
though he did not hear. I saw that matters were assuming a dangerous
complexion, for in the new-comer I recognised Victor Laroquière, an
ex-Bonapartist officer like Paul, a notorious bully, and one of the
most celebrated duellists in France. But what could I do? I could
only sit still, much against my will, and witness the inevitable
consequences. I thought Alice would faint when Laroquière in the
calmest way rose before the crowded assemblage and struck Paul in the
face with his glove; but she recovered herself, and like a statue
watched her lover pick up his opera-glasses, bow to his insulter,
and without a word, leave the building. There were some exclamations
from the audience; but the duellist again rose, and with a theatrical
air gazed round, mockingly imitated Paul's parting bow, and resumed
his seat. This was too much for poor Alice. She could not remain any
longer; she must go home; and so, with some difficulty, I got her and
her mother to my carriage, told the coachman to drive them home, and
myself walked quickly to Paul's lodgings.
He had arrived before me, and was already writing when I entered his
room. 'Of course,' he said, as he saw me and came towards me with
both hands outstretched, 'you, my dear friend, will assist me. It is
impossible to do anything but fight. Even Alice could not make me alter
my conviction upon that point, the insult was so public.'
'Suppose you leave the country?' I suggested.
'Then I should have to give up the appointment and Alice too. No, my
dear fellow, I am a Frenchman, and I must fight; and you must arrange
matters for me. If he shoots me, it cannot be helped; if I shoot him, I
shall have shot the biggest scoundrel in Paris. I beg you to call upon
Laroquière to-night. I have already discovered his address. Here it is.'
'But must you really fight? It is suicide to fight with a professional
duellist.'
'Ah,' he said, shaking his head, 'I am afraid it is suicide; but I
_must_ fight; so please don't try and persuade me that I need not. And
I will fight, too, as soon as possible. You can arrange everything for
to-morrow morning. I must have the matter over. In a day or two I might
be a coward.'
By his looks he implored me to go to Laroquière; and constituted as
French society was at that time, I had no other course open to me than
to do as he wished.
'If Monsieur come from M. Paul Ferrand,' said a man-servant when I
inquired whether I could see his master, 'M. Laroquière has sent to
say that he has not yet left the opera. He has, however, sent this
pencilled note, which I am to give to the gentleman who comes from M.
Ferrand.'
I tore open the missive. It contained two cards, one bearing the name
of the duellist, and the second that of M. Fernand Delaraie, Rue
Vivienne 18. Certainly it was an off-hand way of acquainting me with
the name and whereabouts of Laroquière's second; but as I wished to
pick no quarrel, I walked on to the Rue Vivienne, and in a few minutes
was ushered into the presence of M. Delaraie himself. This worthy was
a young man, aged about three-and twenty, and dressed in the very
extreme of fashion. His ruffles were immaculate, and most symmetrically
arranged; his lace handkerchief was steeped in essences; his gloves,
which lay on the table--for he had only just returned, at Laroquière's
request, from the opera--were small and delicate; his fingers were
covered with valuable rings; and the bunch of gold seals depending
from his fob was unusually heavy and brilliant. He did not strike me
as appearing particularly warlike; but nevertheless, after formally
saluting me, he at once touched upon the object of my visit; and before
I had been ten minutes in his company, had arranged to meet Ferrand and
myself at a certain spot, dear to duellists of the time, at an early
hour next morning, and to bring Laroquière with him.
'I don't think we shall need a surgeon,' he said to me quite affably at
parting; 'but if you please, you can bring one. In his last affair my
principal shot his man through the temples, and he died immediately. I
sincerely hope, Monsieur, that your friend is as clever.'
'Confound the fellow!' I said to myself as I left the house and sought
the residence of my own medical man. 'I am afraid poor Ferrand is not
such a consummate murderer as Laroquière.'
After seeing the surgeon, to whom I briefly explained matters, I called
upon Mrs Rae. She was doing her best to comfort her daughter, who was
in the greatest possible distress. 'Are they going to fight?' she asked
me.
'My dear Alice,' I said, 'they are. I have done my best to dissuade
Paul; but he says, and I am obliged to agree, that he must fight. Let
us hope for the best. He has a sure eye and a steady hand, and he has
right on his side. The other man is a scoundrel. And you must remember
that poor Paul is not an Englishman. If I were he, I would not fight;
but as it is, the matter cannot be overlooked, and indeed everything is
arranged.'
'You are to be with him?' said Mrs Rae, looking as white as a sheet.
'Yes; they are to meet to-morrow morning, and by breakfast-time Alice's
suspense will be over. She must bear up.'
'You must prevent the duel,' sobbed the half-heart-broken girl. 'Cannot
Paul let the insult pass? But no; it was so public.'
'You can only hope,' I said. 'I will see you in the morning; but now I
must go back to him, and see that he gets some sleep.'
'Tell him,' cried Alice, 'that if he is killed I shall die. Come here
directly it is over. Come, even if he falls: you must tell me about
it. I must hear everything.' She buried her face in her hands; and I,
escaping from the unhappy girl, hurried to Paul.
He was still writing, and his hair was in disorder, and his face pale
when he turned towards me. 'I am no coward,' he said, 'but I am saying
good-bye to her, for I shall die to-morrow.'
'My dear fellow,' I exclaimed, 'you will shoot Laroquière, and be
married next month. You must finish your writing at once and go to bed.
I will sleep here to-night, for I must see that you turn out in time
to-morrow morning; so be as quick as possible.'
He wrote for another half-hour, addressed the document to Alice Rae,
placed a lock of his hair within it, and after sealing it up, gave it
to me.
'Give that to her,' he said, 'if Laroquière kills me outright--and I
know he will. If it were not for Alice, I declare that I should be
quite glad to meet him. Now for bed.'
He undressed; whilst I lay down on the sofa in the next room and lit a
cigar, for I could not afford to sleep myself. Soon all was quiet, and
I stole in to see Paul lying as quiet as a child with a smile on his
face. Probably, nay assuredly, I passed a more uncomfortable night than
he did. Only with the greatest possible difficulty could I keep awake;
and the hours seemed to linger for ever. At last, however, daylight
dawned, and I called Ferrand, who woke refreshed and in comparatively
good spirits. After a hurried breakfast we muffled ourselves up; I
placed a flask of brandy, some powder and bullets, and a brace of
pistols in my pockets, and we sallied forth in the cold morning air.
Scarcely any one was abroad, except a few sleepy watchmen, who seemed
to make very shrewd guesses at the object of our expedition; and
through the silent streets we went for a mile or so, until we reached
the meeting-place.
Laroquière and Delaraie were there before us, and my friend the surgeon
arrived immediately afterwards in his carriage, which waited near at
hand. The pistols were produced and loaded. Laroquière chose one, and
I gave the other to Paul; and then the two men took up positions at a
distance of twenty paces from each other, and waited for Delaraie to
give the signal to fire.
'Stay!' cried the bully, as his second stepped back; 'let the young
hound listen to this. I am not trifling with him: I shall shoot him
only where he wishes, for I am generous, parbleu!'
'If I do not kill you,' said Paul quietly, 'I prefer to die.'
'Then I shoot him through the heart,' coolly observed Laroquière. 'It
will teach others not to challenge me.'
There was something to me unspeakably horrible in the way in which
these last words were pronounced. I shuddered, and looked at Paul. He
smiled at me, and at the same instant Delaraie gave the signal.
There was but one report, for Ferrand's pistol flashed in the pan.
The poor fellow turned round towards me with fixed eye and pale face,
and with the name of Alice on his lips, fell dead. Laroquière turned
on his heel, and departed quickly in company with Delaraie, while I
aided the surgeon in his brief examination of Paul's body. Surely
enough, the bullet had passed through his heart. He must have died
almost instantaneously, for he did not move after he fell, and the last
smile with which he had looked at me was still upon his face. It was a
melancholy business in every respect. I had to break the sad news to
Alice and her mother; and the two ladies were so terribly overcome,
that I feared the shock would have some permanent effect upon their
health. For my part, I was obliged to hurry to England as soon as
possible; and Laroquière, I heard, also got away, and remained out of
France until the affair had blown over.
I kept up a correspondence with Mrs Rae, and was glad after a time to
hear from her that Alice, though still terribly upset, had learned to
look with a certain amount of philosophy upon her misfortune, and had
to some extent recovered her usual health, if not her usual spirits.
Meantime I settled down in London, and unable to forget my Parisian
habits, usually dined at one of the then much frequented taverns in
Fleet Street. The _Cheshire Cheese_, which was then in much the same
state as it is now, was my favourite haunt; and there, as months passed
by, I gradually picked up a few pleasant acquaintances, chief amongst
whom was an extremely well-mannered young gentleman named Barton, a man
of independent means, good family, and first-rate education.
One day, after he had been dining with me, the conversation turned upon
continental manners and particularly upon duelling. As an illustration
of my abhorrence of the system, I told my companion about poor Paul's
death, a matter in which Barton appeared much interested. He asked me a
good many questions about the parties concerned, and after expressing
a remarkably strong opinion to the effect that Laroquière was a
blackguard, bid me good-night. I went home to my rooms in the Temple;
and next day, on visiting the _Cheshire Cheese_, found no Barton. He
had left word with one of the waiters that urgent business had called
him away, but that he hoped to see me on his return. Weeks passed, and
then months, and still Barton did not come back; and I confess that I
had begun to forget him altogether, when one evening he dropped into
dinner as though he had not been absent for more than a day or two.
'Where have you been?' I asked, after I had heartily shaken hands with
him.
'I have been to Paris,' he said. 'On arriving there I found out
a little more than you told me about Laroquière, and when I had
thoroughly convinced myself that he was the blackguard you painted him,
I arranged for a series of lessons at a pistol-gallery. Every day for a
month I went and shot for an hour or two, until I was so perfect as to
be able to hit a small coin every time at a distance of twenty paces.
After satisfying myself as to my proficiency, I took a box at the
opera; it may have been the same box that you used to have. Laroquière
was pointed out to me. He sat in the stalls, and between the acts he
left his seat in order to speak to a lady in another part of the house.
I descended as quickly as possible and took his place. He returned,
and asked me in an overbearing tone to move. I refused. He persisted.
I struck him. He sent me a challenge, and we met upon the same spot,
curiously enough, where he had killed your friend Ferrand. Before the
signal was given, I said: "M. Laroquière, listen to me. I am not here
to trifle with you: but I am as generous as you were with Paul Ferrand.
I will shoot you only where you wish." He turned deadly pale. "We will
see," he said, "whether I shall not make you a second Ferrand!" "Then
I will shoot you," I returned, "as you shot him--through the heart. It
will teach other bullies not to challenge me." Whether he was so upset
as to be incapable of aiming or not, I cannot say; but my dear fellow,
I shot him as dead as a dog, right through the heart, and avenged your
friend, at the same time ridding Paris of its biggest villain. It was a
case of diamond cut diamond.'
'Well done, Barton!' I exclaimed.
'Wait,' he said, 'and let me finish the drama. We managed to keep the
matter very quiet; and before leaving France, I was able to call on Mrs
Rae, who is now at Boulogne, for I had a letter of introduction to her
from a Parisian acquaintance. When I saw her first, she knew nothing
of the affair, but at last I broke the intelligence to her and to her
daughter. I found Alice to be a pretty girl, somewhat spoilt by her
long mourning, and not very much inclined to listen to me; but my dear
fellow, after three weeks of hard persuasion she gave in, and now she
and her mother are coming over next week. I believe you were to give
Alice away. When she arrives, you shall have a capital opportunity.'
'And,' I added, shaking my friend's hand warmly, 'I shall be delighted
to do so.'