THE BONE OF CONTENTION.
'Poor Marguerite!' ejaculated O'Hara, when he had heard from his visitor
an account of the scene in _La Jeune France_. 'So this was her kismet!
_Sic transit gloria Aspasiæ._ Well, at all events, she may be more
useful in death than ever she was in life. To think of Marguerite
becoming a hand-maid of science! The wilful wench! How she would glory
in the thought of setting two men by the ears, if she could only learn
it in the sphere she now adorns! But do you know, O'Hoolohan, on
reflection, I can't help thinking you are in the wrong. How does it harm
the woman to have her shin-bone ministering to the needs of literature?
Ulric Zuingli bequeathed his skin to be made into a drum-head to rouse
his followers; and Byron, if I'm not mistaken, was fond of taking his
tipple out of a neatly-scooped skull.'
'Will you act for me? Right or wrong now the thing has gone too far for
retreating.'
'I fear that is only too true. Of course I'll act for you. Let me see.
You're sure he called you Mr. Insolent first.'
'Certain.'
'That's one point in our favour. As we are the offended party, we have
the choice of weapons. Have you any preference?'
'Cavalry pistols. French duellists, as a rule, have a rooted dislike to
facing a bullet. As for small swords, that's only child's play. A
scratch, and honour is satisfied.'
'Cavalry pistols be it. I shall let you know the time and place of
rendezvous, at four this afternoon, at your boarding-house.'
'All right,' said O'Hoolohan; 'meantime I shall go and take a look at
the bears in the Jardin des Plantes.'
'There goes a character!' muttered O'Hara to himself, as his visitor
descended the stairs. 'Hang me if I can fathom him!'
The young Irishman dressed himself in his best, and was punctual in his
call at the rooms of the youth in blue spectacles. The blear-eyed
stripling was also present. Business was at once opened in a
business-like manner. Explanations were tendered on neither side. The
mutual insults were too gross and public to be blotted out except by
blows. Apology was not asked or offered. The details of the hostile
meeting were gone over with overwhelming affability and owl-like
gravity. In negotiations of this kind, to smooth the passage of one or
two men to a premature eternity, the extremest forms of politeness are
invariably observed. If there was to be a fight, the earlier it came off
the more agreeable it must be to all concerned. Eight o'clock the next
morning was fixed as the hour of rendezvous, by unanimous consent. As
Eugène the Gascon, as his friends took care to remark, was a crack shot,
they had no prejudice against the cavalry pistols.
The first discussion was on the question of the distance at which the
adversaries should be placed from each other. O'Hara, with a charming
readiness to oblige, suggested that shots should be exchanged across a
table-napkin.
The Frenchman demurred.
'That would be slaughter,' said Blue Spectacles.
'Undoubtedly it would be very like it,' agreed O'Hara; 'but my man is
used to slaughter on a wholesale scale--an old soldier of Africa, the
Crimea, and Italy. Does your principal object to being shot?'
'If he does not, most certainly I do, to being arrested as accessory to
murder,' chimed in Pale Face.
Finally it was decided that the adversaries should be placed twenty
paces apart, with privilege to each to advance five paces before
delivering his fire, if he so elected. There was to be no toss-up as to
who was to fire first; they were to consult their own judgment as to
that from the instant the signal for action, the dropping of a
handkerchief, was given. If the first exchange was harmless, the renewal
of the combat was to be left to the discretion of the witnesses.
'With your permission, messieurs,' said O'Hara, 'I vote for Clamart as
the place of rendezvous. I know a retired garden there, walled round and
perfectly secure from observation. It is a most convenient spot; looks
as if it were designed by nature for the purpose. Besides, there is a
deep disused draw-well there, so that we can get rid of any dangerous
evidence of the morning's work in case of a fatal issue.'
The Frenchmen winced, but as they knew of no better site for the
encounter, they agreed--provided there was a good restaurant in the
vicinity. It was contrary to all the etiquette of the code of honour in
Paris to have a duel without a breakfast after. In fact, a duel would
not be a duel if it were not followed by a comfortable repast.
O'Hara eased their fears on this score.
'And now, messieurs,' he added in conclusion, 'I have two conditions to
impose, in the interests of our own safety. The first is, that no one
will seek to publish an account of this meeting in the papers; the next,
that each of the principals will sign a paper to the effect that he was
tired of a hollow and deceitful world, and meant to make away with
himself, so as to exonerate his antagonist from all responsibility in
the future.'
There was a twinkle in O'Hara's eyes as he spoke. He suspected the
Gascon's witnesses would not relish assisting at the combat unless they
were to borrow some reflected renown from it; and he knew that a
document such as he mentioned would be valueless, seeing that the
quarrel had been public, and the probable result was the common gossip
of the quarter. But he plausibly wheedled the Frenchmen into assenting
to his propositions by putting the terrible perils that would accrue to
them in the event of a death in very strong light.
As he was leaving, Blue Spectacles bethought him that they might have
some trouble in finding cavalry pistols. Eugène had none, he thought,
and it might lead to unpleasant consequences if they were to purchase
the weapons at a gunsmith's; they would be sure to be identified by the
prying _mouchards_.
'I can oblige, messieurs, if you will trust me,' said O'Hara. 'My friend
has a brace in capital order. You can make your choice of them on the
ground.'
This satisfied all requirements. O'Hara was thanked for his courtesy,
and was ushered to the landing with an exquisite urbanity that was
touching in its kindly, well-bred thoughtfulness; it positively recalled
the manner in vogue when the Roi Soleil shed the lustre of his
countenance on Versailles. As he briskly descended the stairs, the
students shut the door and looked at each other with faces overshadowed
with anxiety.
'_Pardi!_' said Blue Spectacles, 'this is serious.'
'Serious!--'tis awful!' said Pale Face. 'I feel as if I must have an
_absinthe pure_ at the Mère Moreau's. I would not be in Eugène's boots
for a milliard. Come on.'
* * * * *
The morning of the duel broke with all the freshness and warmth and
brilliancy of the genial spring in the latitude of Paris. In the
picturesque Clamart suburb, with its market-gardens and white villas,
its plantations, its windmills, and its vine-clad slopes, the aspect was
one of ripe loveliness. It was a rosy, odorous, appetizing morn; a morn
for a pleasant woodland walk under the branches where small birds
chavished; a morn to drop gently down the river and ply the indolent
rod; a morn for a canter on a brisk cob across the sweet-scented
meadows; a morn for plucking flowers, smoking choice cigars,
love-dreaming, or poetic musing--for anything, in fact, but thoughts of
sudden and violent death. It has been remarked by some moralists that
sunny, innocent, enjoyable morns, when the blood seems to bound
joyously in the veins, and the very act of breathing is a vivid
pleasure, have an ugly habit of intruding themselves unbidden when
armies are about to join in strife or criminals are about to tread the
scaffold.
The Gascon never before realized how very comfortable a world it is, and
how very disagreeable it would be to leave it while he was yet young and
healthy, with a sound stomach and a liver unconscious of derangement.
But his pride was greater than his fears, and coating his doubts and
apprehensions under a veneer of indifference, he was the first to warn
his friends of the necessity of being punctilious at the trysting-place.
As punctuality is the courtesy of kings, so also is it of duellists.
The Gascon and his party were first on the ground--four of them, the
principal, Blue Spectacles, Pale Face, and a young medical practitioner
with an ominous set of surgical instruments cunningly hidden in a
fiddle-case to disarm suspicion.
Hardly had they alighted from their _voiture_, and walked towards the
village where O'Hara had arranged to meet them, when a singular
approaching whir of wheels was heard, blent with the noisy ululation of
a dog. Turning the corner, there came into view O'Hara and the
O'Hoolohan riding to the rendezvous on bicycles! They had adopted this
original method of evading the prying gendarmes of the locality. Pat had
followed them--followed them perforce; for the now lazy animal had been
tied by a rope to the tool-box of a machine, and was forced to keep pace
with the 'steel steed.'
'Pardon, gentlemen,' said O'Hara, jumping from his tiny saddle, 'but if
we are a little late it is my fault I did not think the gradients on the
road were so trying.'
The Gascon's friends advanced, accepted the excuse with excessive show
of politeness, and Blue Spectacles, as the senior, presented the doctor
in form.
'Very thoughtful of you, indeed!' said O'Hara, in an undertone. 'My man
never hires a surgeon--never needs one, for the matter of that. Have you
that letter I spoke of ready?' at the same time handing the young
Frenchman a document to the following effect:
'This is to certify that the bearer, O'Hoolohan, 35, Irish of
origin, and annuitant by station, unmarried, committed suicide on
the 5th day of April, 1866, at Clamart, in the Department of the
Seine, and that nobody is blamable for the despair which led him to
the act.'
As Blue Spectacles read this curt, legally-framed document, he quaked
and whitened, and a quiver of his eyes might be detected under their
ultramarine protectors. But he nerved himself for the worst; after all,
it is much easier to be brave when your bosom friend's fate is in the
balance than when your own precious carcass is in peril. The Frenchman,
in return, handed O'Hara a perfumed, gilt-edged billet, with an
arrow-pierced heart in chromo-lithography at the top of it. As it was
characteristic of the Gascon, it may be interesting to give its
contents:
'Away, thou hollow world, with all thy vain pomps and glittering
gauds! Farewell the friendship that is false, the love that is
venal, the happiness that deceives like the desert mirage! Dash
down the cup of revelry that brings but the fitful doze; welcome
the bullet of relief that summons repose eternal! With my own hands
I sign my doom; by my own hands I die! Not for me the roses of hope
or the laurels of ambition, but the cypress of despair and
disappointment. Cut off a tress of my hair and send it to my
mother; a locket with a portrait will be discovered over my
heart--bury it in my grave.
'EUGÈNE SIRAUDIN.'
'That will do very nicely,' remarked O'Hara as he read this valentine
from beyond the tomb; 'it is tenderly written--Lamartine with a flavour
of De Musset. I should like to have a copy to send to the Manuscript
Room of the British Museum. I suppose we're all here?'
'Where's your other witness?' asked Pale Face.
'In England we consider one enough; but if you insist upon it, we shall
look upon my dog as discharging the duty.'
Pale Face grew white as a Pierrot. As for Blue Spectacles, the
devil-may-care ease of the Irishman had put him into a blue funk.
All this time the principals stood apart, acting the _rôle_ of
unconcerned spectators. That is the correct deportment in duels. Eugène
Siraudin puffed away at a cigarette; the O'Hoolohan, who was hot and
ruddy after his exertions on the bicycle, stretched himself on his back
on the turf by the trunk of a roadside poplar.
'Gentlemen, it's getting late,' cried O'Hara. 'We had better to
business,' and he led the way, thrusting his bicycle by his side,
through a gap in the field across to a postern in the wall of a villa
garden, which was all he had described it--perfectly secure from the
notice of passers-by. The doctor laid his fiddle-case on the grass,
opened it, and displayed the shining instruments. The ground was stepped
by the young Irishman. Traces were made with chalk at the extremities,
twenty paces asunder, and at the further five paces, in front of each
adversary's position, beyond which they were not to advance. O'Hara
loaded the pistols and gave them to the Gascon's witnesses to examine.
This they did in a very perfunctory way. The truth is, both were
ignorant of the manner of loading a pistol, and, if they had the task to
accomplish themselves, were as likely as not to put in the wad before
the powder. The pistols were of the percussion and ramrod type, and the
charges of powder and ball were supposed to be put in separately and
driven home.
'Take your choice,' said O'Hara to Blue Spectacles.
Blue Spectacles took the first to his hand, adding that with such an
honourable man there was no room for choice.
'Let your principal take what position he pleases,' said O'Hara, bowing;
'it's immaterial to us.'
They got into their places, each in that nearest to where he was
standing at the moment.
'Ready?' asked O'Hara.
Both nodded acquiescence.
'Who shall drop the handkerchief?'
'Will you oblige?' prayed Blue Spectacles, with a tremor in his voice.
'All right!'
The handkerchief was dropped.
Almost instantaneously the Gascon fired. The smoke lifted. O'Hoolohan
stood erect, unhurt, a placid self-possessed expression on his set
features.
O'Hoolohan slowly moved five paces, halted; gradually raised his weapon,
and deliberately aimed first at the Gascon's heart, then at his brain.
It was a cruel experiment, but the Gascon bore it with splendid
courage. His complexion paled, it is true, and his mouth was restive,
but his gaze was bold and almost disdainful. O'Hoolohan raised the
pistol still higher, turned its muzzle perpendicularly, and discharged
it into the air, quietly saying, 'You are no coward; I am sorry for the
expression!'
After such a scene it was impossible to renew the combat. The Gascon, in
his turn, retracted the hasty language he had used, and the entire party
betook them to the hostelry where breakfast had been ordered by O'Hara's
care, all satisfied--except the surgeon, who had theories about gunshot
wounds, and was not averse to having practice in their treatment.
The breakfast put them all--even the surgeon--into good humour. O'Hara
knew how to draw up a bill of fare, and O'Hoolohan had given him _carte
blanche_ as to the outlay. There was everything at the repast, in season
and out of season, that could be had for money--truffles of Perigord,
melons of Cavaillon, oysters of Cancale, Montmorency cherries, and
Montreuil peaches, beside vintage and viands generous of quality and
copious in quantity.
When the repast was finished, and the customary _demi-tasses_ of black
Mocha, with the small glasses of liqueur beside, were laid upon the
table, O'Hara gravely stood up in his place at the head, which had been
tacitly conceded to him, and demanded the word--the French parliamentary
equivalent for asking permission to make a speech.
The permission was cordially granted by word of mouth from those whose
mouths were empty, by token of assent from those who were still cracking
nuts or coaxing tobacco into vaporous circulation.
'Messieurs,' he began, 'having satisfied honour and our appetites, I
claim a few words on behalf of common-sense and conservatism. Firstly, I
am a Conservative--that is to say, I am tenacious of traditions among
other things; and it is a tradition of my country never to loose a
chance of making a speech. Several of my relatives carried the habit to
such an extent that they made public discourses on their dying
day--discourses which were discourteously interrupted by vile public
functionaries. (Emotion.) Messieurs, you who are not vile, and who are
not public functionaries, and, indeed, who are never likely to be public
functionaries--you, I trust, will not interrupt me. (Cries of 'No, no.')
I was sure of it. You yourselves are disciples of this great art of
oratory. You cultivate it at the risk of coryza over the newly-filled
graves of dead friends. (Here Blue Spectacles and Pale Face winced.)
Much as I admire eloquence, I am sincerely glad that there was no
occasion for rhetorical display of that kind this morning, and this it
is which brings me to the common-sense side of my subject. Messieurs, in
the light of pure common-sense, I have a proposition to lay before you.
It is this:--We are all asses. (Astonishment and attention.) Asses, if
not worse, I repeat. If either of the principals in this morning's work
were to have killed the other, he would be now a homicidal ass, and that
other would be that very rare animal--a dead ass. (Sensation.) As I
should be one of the accessories, I refrain from dwelling on what their
position would be. Messieurs, the duello is a folly--nay, more, it is a
crime. What does it prove? Not that the survivor is truer or better than
the slaughtered, but that he is luckier, or more skilful, or has less
command of the nerves that are in him, not of himself so much as of
nature. Both of you, gentlemen (addressing the Gascon and O'Hoolohan),
have good command of nerves. Let me hope in the future you will have
better command of temper. To resume my thesis, the merits of a quarrel
are not affected by the issue. They remain as they were before.
Dismissing the artificial accretions to the quarrel we so pleasantly
settled an hour ago, to what does it reduce itself? Two grown men, with
friends, with duties in life, with ambitions and affections,
deliberately seek to slay each other for the sake of the shin-bone of a
woman that neither would have dared to introduce to his mother.
(Sensation.) Both knew her equally well, perhaps; both liked her,
admired her beauty, pitied her misfortunes; but could either respect her
character? No! I will answer for all, no. Messieurs, I perceive you
agree with me; and as I understand from my friend in the blue spectacles
that he has the bone of contention in his possession, may I crave it
from him, and do with it as I like?'
The Gascon said he might.
The O'Hoolohan cried 'All right!'
Blue Spectacles handed him the paper-knife.
'Then, messieurs,' exclaimed O'Hara, opening the window, 'away with it.
Thus out of sight with aught that might cause malice between honest
men.' And he flung it spinning through the air, amid shouts of 'Bravo!
Good, good!' from all except O'Hoolohan, whose face was twisted into a
queer look of deprecation.
But it had not gone out of sight. Pat the dog was watching it, and, as
it fell, sprang through the open casement and bounded after it in the
grass. O'Hara was about to whistle him back, but he sniffed a moment at
the spot where the blade had dropped, and then turned and trotted back
with an air of pitiful contempt.
'That is singular!' soliloquized O'Hara aloud. 'I never knew a dog to
refuse a bone before.'
He tapped on the table with a knife-handle, and on the waiter answering
to the call he requested him to fetch the paper-knife he would find in
the grass outside.
The waiter brought it back after a short search, and O'Hara carefully
examined it.
'This, you are sure,' he asked of Blue Spectacles, 'was the original
bone of contention?'
'Certainly,' was the ready answer.
'Then there is some mistake here. Surely, monsieur,' turning to Eugène
Siraudin, 'you cannot have confounded an elephant with a human being?
_This knife is of ivory!_'
O'Hoolohan jumped to his feet and snatched it. The Gascon reddened and
stammered, 'I knew it all along; I said what I did about it through mere
brag, to cap my friend's boast about the watch-guard of her hair, and I
was ashamed to explain afterwards, lest it should look like cowardice.'
O'Hara sat down, ordered drinks all round, and then threw himself back
in his chair, cocked his feet upon the table, and laughed a Homeric
laugh. That laugh was contagious. Everybody laughed in a perfect gamut
of laughter, from the shrill treble of Pale Face to the morose baritone
of the surgeon, and the deep watch-dog basso-profondo of the O'Hoolohan.
And then everybody, save the surgeon, embraced everybody else; and then
everybody, the surgeon inclusive, drank their drinks.
'How lucky it was, gentlemen, you did not both kill each other!'
exclaimed O'Hara, and he burst into a franker, more joyous guffaw than
ever.
The sly rascal! They little knew that he had provided himself with
pistols from a conjuring friend, and had withdrawn the bullets before
their eyes by the aid of a ramrod ending in a screw. The duel had been
fought, like that of Jeffreys and Tom Moore, with leadless weapons.
And thus ended the hostile meeting at Clamart, and thus was Marguerite,
like a soldier, committed to oblivion with a discharge of harmless
gunpowder.