OF SIR RICHARD PENDRAGON’S DUELLO WITH THE GALLANT FRENCHMAN
ANY excitement that was likely to arise was checked by the Frenchman’s
action. With a dark and cold smile on his lips, he turned to his
friends and held up a slender white hand that was covered with jewels,
and besought them, almost in a tone of entreaty, to display calmness.
Then with a most courteous apology to all who had suspended their play,
and remarking that it was plaguy unfortunate that he must suspend his
own when the cards had smiled upon him for the first time in a long
season, he ordered the landlord to have all the room’s furniture drawn
close to the wall.
While this was being done, the Count of Nullepart went to the
Englishman and addressed him privily.
“This fellow,” said he, “is the first swordsman in France. He is the
hero of a hundred duellos, and he is quite invincible.”
“Is he so, my dear?” said the English giant in his modest voice, which
seemed to feign alarm. “How pleasant it must be for the poor soul to be
invincible.”
Sir Richard Pendragon turned to me and said in a manner of courtesy I
had seldom heard him use, “Prithee, good Don Miguel, oblige old honest
Dickon by going into the stable yonder and procuring that little
rapier of Ferrara steel, which you will find strapped to the saddle of
the meritorious Melanto, who is now eating his supper of oats like a
good Christian horse.”
In obedience to this request, I went forth to the stable to procure
the rapier of Ferrara steel. Upon returning with it into the room, I
found that a goodly space had been cleared in the centre. Both parties
to the duello were standing therein stripped of their doublets. The
spectators, exceeding a score in number, were seated on settles which
were ranged close to the wall.
It was curious to observe the looks of mingled contempt, pity, and
derision of these persons when I approached the Englishman and handed
to him the Italian rapier. Some of them were unable to repress their
mirth. They laughed out loudly, as though my action was the height of
the ridiculous.
Before I had taken the chair that was offered to me, these adversaries
had crossed their swords. If I live to be an hundred years old I shall
never forget the battle that ensued. At the first shock of steel
against steel it was clear that each recognized in the other a foremost
swordsman of the age.
The knowledge did not induce fury nor any kind of excitement. It
rendered them calmer, more wary, and subtle than they would have been
otherwise. And the gentlemen present, each of whom, as the Count of
Nullepart informed me, was a master of the sword, began soon to realize
that one of their peers had come quite unexpectedly into their midst.
It was not all at once that this was made clear to them. At first
they regarded the contest with smiles that were merely mocking and
incredulous. Naturally it seemed the extreme of presumption that such a
fellow, whose manners and appearance were so barbarous, should venture
to stand up with a delicate and slender Italian weapon before the first
swordsman of the time. But so soon as their true blades had met, the
company began to exchange significant glances one with another, and
in a very little while they realized that this was no tyro who stood
before them.
From the first it was beautiful play. Owing to his stature, it was
necessary that the Englishman should lose something of elegance
in the comparison with his inimitable adversary, but, stroke and
counterstroke, they were perfectly matched.
The spectators inclined to the opinion at first that Monsieur du
Bartas, for that was the name of their champion, the foremost in all
France, was not putting forth the whole of his art; but when presently
they came to perceive how easily his deftest strokes were turned aside,
they began to waver.
It was a long duello, yet it was one of which every phase was
memorable. These two wonderfully accomplished men began to weave a
spell upon their audience; and as their actions grew quicker and the
finer shades of their play declared themselves, the spectators began to
lean forward out of their seats, and with the loud and ringing music of
the steel was mingled “bravas” and all kinds of applause.
As the combat proceeded the excitement grew more intense. The
spectators seemed not to breathe. For the first time in his career
their invincible champion stood in danger. No matter what the cunning
and the incomparable skill of his devices, it began to appear that
unless the unforeseen occurred to save him he went in danger of his
life.
It was then that the buzz of voices and the murmurs of applause grew
hushed, and soon the gay shouts, the sneering smiles, the sarcasm
of their commentary, yielded to a dead silence. The circle of
onlookers craned ever closer to the combatants, yet now not a word was
spoken; and upon the faces of many there was a mingled surprise and
consternation that they sought not to conceal. For the countenance of
the first swordsman in France was growing livid. The sweat had crept
upon his brow. Proud and brave man though he was, he had begun to feel
himself in the grip of a power beyond his own.
As with amazing skill the Englishman parried stroke after stroke, which
were themselves the fine flowers of his adversary’s talent, each one
of which must have sufficed to place one less in genius out of his
life, I overheard a bewildered gentleman of the King’s Guard say to a
companion, “This fellow must be the Devil!”
All at once and quite suddenly there came the sound of bare steel
striking the ground. The celebrated Frenchman, the hero of a hundred
duellos, stood without a weapon before his adversary.
It was a moment I shall never forget. The sympathies of the Count
of Nullepart and myself were of course engaged upon the side of Sir
Richard Pendragon; but as this noble and imperious French gentleman
stood with head upheld and a look of disdain upon his lips to receive
the penalty of his failure, I think, in common with all the other
witnesses of this splendid encounter, the count and I would have been
only too eager to avert it could we have done so.
Yet Monsieur du Bartas looked not for mercy. He was known as one who
neither gave quarter nor expected to receive it. None, therefore,
looked for mercy for him. The Englishman had gained the victory in fair
fight; it was perfectly just that he should enjoy its fruits. Such
an expectation, however, merely shows how imperfect a thing is the
science of reason, and how simple it is to do less than justice even
to our friends. For none could have foreseen, least of all the Count
of Nullepart and myself, that Sir Richard Pendragon, one of a rude and
uncivilized nation, would stoop to pick up a fallen sword and, with a
bow that would have become the most accomplished of courtiers, return
it to his conquered adversary.
It was then that the silence of the gentlemen of the King’s Guard
yielded to expressions of pleasure. They crowded round the victor,
shook him by the hand, paid him most flattering addresses; and nothing
would content these Frenchmen, regaled as they had been by great
generosity and the highest skill, save that the Englishman and also his
companions should remain with them, drink their wine, and partake of
their hospitality.
Indeed, the rest of the evening was the most delectable it could
have been given to any travellers to spend. We were treated with the
most distinguished consideration by those who were not accustomed to
exercise it on a light pretext. Yet it soon became clear that they had
come to regard their guests as mysterious.
The French, as all travellers allow, are people of quick parts; and
while they feasted and flattered us, it was plain to these gentlemen
that we were other than we seemed. With all the courtesy possible,
for even the Englishman could doff his brusque manners when it suited
his humour, we declined to disclose a word of our embassy, contenting
ourselves merely with inquiring whether the King was at Paris. It was
our good fortune to learn that he was.
As the evening passed we felt ourselves to be the objects of a
particular scrutiny. Our new friends grew most curious concerning us.
After we had supped they asked us to take a hand at the cards. My two
companions accepted this invitation; but I refrained from it because
I was still very poor, and perhaps quite as conclusively because my
northern breeding induces the virtue of caution.
No sooner had Sir Richard Pendragon and the Count of Nullepart begun to
play than the interest of these gentlemen grew lively indeed. This was
not so much aroused by the demeanour of the conqueror of M. du Bartas,
but rather by that of the Count of Nullepart, who, in spite of his long
beard and rustical Spanish, betrayed his true condition in unsuspected
ways to those who were themselves high-born.
First, they observed his white and shapely hands as they lay upon the
board. Again, there was the delicacy of his features, the natural
politeness of his gestures; and yet again, they could not fail to
detect the subtle and charming quality of the accent that lurked
beneath his assumption of a rustical brogue. Thus it fell out that
presently they came once more to confer among themselves, and then one
of these gentlemen said with a most profound respect to the so-called
Señor Fulano, “By my life, monseigneur, is not this a----”
Before this gentleman could conclude his remark the Count of Nullepart
answered him in his charming natural speech and in the French tongue,
“My good Clery, you are seldom prudent in the evening; and I am told
it is entirely due to this misfortune of yours that you still remain
without advancement. All the world knows that at Paris nowadays one
must learn to see little and to speak less.”
No sooner had the gentlemen of the King’s Guard recovered from an
astonishment which at first seemed to overwhelm them than they began to
shout with laughter. For what reason they should thus view the matter I
cannot explain; but from that moment a more formal air was imparted to
the assembly. Something of ceremony declared itself, and the manner of
all present became perceptibly less easy. Still this may in a measure
have been due to the fact that these gentlemen put forth remarkable and
in some cases highly ludicrous efforts to conduct their discourse in
Castilian.
In one particular, however, our singular companion saw fit to rebuke
them. They persisted in bestowing upon him the title of “Monseigneur,”
so that presently he was moved to exclaim, “I pray you remember, my
good friends, that I am neither more nor less than the worshipful
Señor Fulano, worshipful kinsman to the worshipful burgomaster of the
worshipful town of El Dorado. Beyond this I claim no title. And when
the Señor Fulano comes among you to-morrow at the Louvre, which a
conspiracy on the part of fortune has rendered necessary, I pray you
not to call the honest person out of his true degree.”
Laughter and surprise greeted this speech; yet a kind of respect was
paid to it, and during the rest of the evening they were careful to
heed this request.
These gentlemen sat at their gaming far into the night. The play
was high; gold pieces were numerous, being piled upon the table and
exchanged freely. Also they drank an immense quantity of a very
superior kind of red wine. Whatever the individual fortunes of the
players, and of these I cannot speak, there was at least one among them
who rose from the board considerably richer in the things of this world
than when he sat down at it. I allude to Sir Richard Pendragon. Both
the Count of Nullepart and myself were fain to observe that, whenever
it came to the Englishman’s turn to take the dice in hand, quite as
often as not he would have the singular good fortune to cast the double
six.