A DUEL AT MID-DAY
I awoke betimes the next morning, but did not immediately arise. In
fact, I welcomed the opportunity to thoroughly review my position and
decide how best to steer my course. Here, then, was I, Jean de Brancas,
poor in everything but spirit, who, the day before, had been tramping
the streets of Paris friendless and well-nigh penniless, and who had
even thought of the Seine as a last place of refuge. Since then, by the
merest good fortune, which I had done little to merit, I had gained
the friendship of Richelieu, the man in all the kingdom whom I most
admired. I had been given entrance, if not to the society of Sceaux, at
least to the Paris salon of Madame du Maine. I had met Mlle. de Launay,
copies of whose witty letters had found their way even to Poitiers,
where I had read them until I knew them by rote. I had been admitted
to the secret of the Cellamare conspiracy, and this, I confess, rather
stuck in my throat. Open combat and the bright flash of swords I
would have welcomed gladly, but I had small relish for intrigue and
conspiracy and the considerations which sometimes make it necessary to
stab in the dark. And, in truth, I had little hope that the conspiracy
would succeed, for it seemed founded on selfishness, and the French
nation would forget its hostility to the regent once a Spanish army
was on its soil. Yet it mattered not to me who was regent, Philip of
Orleans or Philip of Spain, and I reflected that even if Richelieu
fell, he would not fall far. He had shown me kindness and good will,
and these I was determined to repay as best I could. At worst, I could
lose nothing but my life, and the prize was worth the risk.
It was late when I arose, but Richelieu had not yet appeared, and
I descended into the court, attracted by the busy life which I saw
there. An army of servants was running hither and thither, grooming
and exercising horses, cleaning harness, polishing the gilding on
half a dozen coaches, sprinkling clean, white sand along the walks,
sweeping and dusting the wide entrance, and doing a hundred other
things which attested the care and attention given to every detail of
the management of this great house. At one side of the court I was
surprised to see standing a coach to which two horses were harnessed.
The driver was on the box, and the equipage was apparently ready to
take the road at a moment’s notice.
“Does M. le Duc go abroad this morning?” I asked of a man who was
standing near.
“I really do not know, monsieur,” he answered, politely.
“For whom, then, is the coach waiting?” and I indicated it with a
gesture.
He glanced at me in surprise.
“Monsieur must be new to the hotel,” he said. “Whenever M. le Duc is at
home a carriage is kept waiting in the court, in case he might have use
for it.”
I turned away with a new understanding of the character and resources
of the remarkable man whose guest I was, and returned slowly to the
great reception-hall, where Jacques was awaiting me. Richelieu himself
appeared soon after, and I was relieved to find that his manner
preserved the hearty cordiality of the night before. I had been half
afraid--though I would not admit it even to myself--that the morning
might in some way bring disillusion with it and send toppling the
pretty castles which I had been building in the air. Breakfast was
soon served. We lingered over the meal, during which I gave the duke a
little history of my family, and noon was striking as we left the house.
“We go to the Café Procope,” said Richelieu. “It is in a new style
which is becoming very popular, and I fancy we shall find some one
there who can tell us the news of the court.”
We entered the carriage which was in waiting, drove out through the
central gate, the army of lacqueys bowing on either side, and across
Paris towards the Rue Saint Germain-des-Pres, where the café stood, and
which it bade fair to render one of the most fashionable quarters of
the city. The café had, as the duke said, inaugurated a new style, and
there was only one other in Paris at the time, the Café de la Regence,
whose name was sufficient of itself to keep my companion away from it.
A drive of ten minutes brought us to the suburb where the café stood,
and the throng of carriages before the door told of the crowd within. A
perfect babel greeted us as we entered, for it had become the fashion
for each person to do his best to out-talk his neighbors. We found with
some difficulty an unoccupied table, and Richelieu motioned me to a
seat while he took the one opposite.
“There is no coffee made in Paris which compares with that served
here,” he remarked, and as he summoned a waiter I looked about me.
The room was large, and was rendered even larger in appearance by the
numerous richly-carved mirrors which embellished the walls. Through an
open doorway at the back came the click of dice and much loud laughter.
Gayly attired parties were continually entering and leaving the private
cabinets, and trills of feminine laughter mingled with the harsher
voices of the men.
“Ah, de Rey,” cried Richelieu at that moment to a gentleman sitting at
the next table, “Mlle. de Launay was telling us a clever story at your
expense last night.”
“And what was it, may I ask?” questioned de Rey, a tall,
black-moustachioed man, whom I thought ungainly.
“She accuses you of fickleness in your love-affairs,” replied the duke,
and he related the geometrical sally.
“What would you have, monsieur?” cried de Rey, as the story was
finished, laughing as heartily as any one. “A man never knows to-day
whom he will meet to-morrow, and not knowing that, how can he be
certain whom he will love?”
While he was speaking three men had entered and taken seats at a
neighboring table. They commenced conversing in voices which seemed to
me unnecessarily loud, and I could not avoid overhearing them.
“Have you heard,” one of them asked, “of the disposition the regent is
to make of his daughter, Mlle. de Valois?”
I glanced at Richelieu and saw that he also had heard. His face was
white with anger, and I saw he knew the men and did not doubt that they
had come there purposely to insult him.
“Proposals for her hand have been received from the King of Sardinia,”
continued the speaker, “and the regent is only too glad to get rid of
the fair Charlotte. She seems destined to become even more troublesome
than Madame du Berri,” and the speaker laughed, with an insolent
note in his voice, and glanced meaningly in our direction. A sudden
stillness had fallen upon the crowd.
“By my word,” cried the other, looking full at Richelieu, “’twill be
bad news to a certain gentleman whose name begins with R, and who, I
have heard, has been dying of love for the Valois this month past.”
The duke was out of his chair in an instant, but I was before him.
“Monsieur will doubtless give me the pleasure of a moment’s
conversation outside?” I inquired, courteously.
“And who the devil may you be?” he asked, in an insolent tone.
“Perhaps this will tell you,” I cried, red with anger at the insult,
and I struck him fairly in the mouth with my open hand.
He leaped from his chair and drew his sword with a furious gesture,
nor did mine linger in its sheath. Tables were overturned, chairs were
thrown aside, and our swords had already engaged, when a little fat
man, with prodigiously long moustachios, came running up.
“Not in here, messieurs! Not in here, I beg of you!” he cried, wringing
his hands. “It would ruin my business should those devils of Hérault
ever hear of it.” I remembered that Hérault was lieutenant of police.
“He is right,” I said, dropping my point. “Let us adjourn to the
street, monsieur. There, at least, we shall injure no one but
ourselves.”
We had already commenced the combat, and I admit that I took my chance
in lowering my guard, but I was not prepared for the act of cowardice
which followed. For before I could recover myself I felt rather than
saw my antagonist thrust at me, and I involuntarily closed my eyes as
I waited to feel his sword in my flesh. But at that instant there came
a ringing clash of steel on steel, and I opened my eyes to see the
scoundrel’s weapon flying over the heads of the spectators.
“Ah, de Gare,” cried Richelieu, for it was he who had disarmed him,
“and yet you dare associate with gentlemen! If I gave you your deserts
I would run you through where you stand. But I prefer killing you
with your sword in your hand, so follow me to the street and we will
finish this argument. Stand back, de Brancas,” he continued to me,
as I attempted to interfere. “This is my quarrel. It was I whom they
insulted.”
The Comte de Gare, foaming with rage, picked up his sword and followed
to the street. The sentiment of the crowd was plainly with Richelieu,
and a moment later when I looked about for de Gare’s companions they
had disappeared. A ring of curious spectators formed around the two
men, and their swords were ringing together in an instant. Before a
moment passed I saw that de Gare had found his master. He realized it,
too, and his face went from red to white as he felt the duke’s iron
wrist and saw the implacable purpose in his eyes. Plainly it was only
the question of a few moments. The duke was playing with him, parrying
almost carelessly his savage thrusts, and advancing his own point
nearer and nearer to his heart. The onlookers waited with bated breath
for the thrust which they knew would be fatal.
“You shall see, gentlemen,” cried Richelieu, gayly, for his
self-possession had returned the instant he felt his adversary’s sword
against his own, “the proper way to deal with cowards. This fellow has
presumed to be seen in the company of gentlemen, and I am glad that
it was reserved for my sword to punish him. Ah, you break!” he cried
again, for the other had given back a step. I, who was standing at the
duke’s side, saw a kind of ferocity spring to life in de Gare’s eyes,
and I noticed that his left hand was no longer behind him, but was
concealed in the folds of his doublet. Something, I know not what, made
me suspect the man.
“Be on guard, monsieur!” I cried to Richelieu, “he means some
treachery,” and even as I spoke he drew forth his hand and threw a
poniard full at Richelieu’s heart. At the same instant, comprehending
de Gare’s purpose, I pushed Richelieu to one side. I felt a sharp, hot
pain in my right shoulder, and knew that the dagger had wounded me.
With a terrible cry Richelieu sprang forward, and fairly beating down
his guard, plunged his sword to the hilt in his breast. De Gare made a
desperate effort to keep his feet, grasped the sword, drew it from the
wound, and fell to the street, the blood gushing forth in a torrent. He
breathed convulsively once or twice, with the crowd looking down upon
him, his eyes glazed, a shudder ran through his body, and he was dead.
“Thus perish all cowards,” said Richelieu. And then, turning to me,
“You saved my life, de Brancas. ’Twas a brave act.”
“No more than you have twice done for me, monsieur,” I answered. “I
have only half paid my debt.”
“But you are wounded!” he cried, seeing that I held my handkerchief to
my shoulder and that it was red with blood. “The dagger struck you,
then? Let me see how serious it is,” and he was tearing the doublet
away from my shoulder ere I had time to protest.
“’Tis only a flesh wound, monsieur,” I said. “Pray do not trouble about
it.”
“Trouble about it, indeed. Come in here with me,” and he dragged rather
than led me into the café again. “Come, Maitre Delorme,” he cried to
the proprietor, who was still wringing his hands and bewailing the
destruction of his glasses, “bring me water and clean linen, and be
quick about it. Ah, here is one who will know how to dress the wound,”
he added, as a tall, clean-shaven man, dressed severely in black,
pushed his way through the crowd. “Upon my word, Levau, you come in the
nick of time. I have a patient for you,” and he turned me over to the
famous surgeon.
The latter in a moment had examined the wound, with puckered brow,
washed it in clean water, spread some cooling lotion upon it, which he
took from a case he carried in his pocket, and securely bandaged it.
Not till then did he deign to speak.
“A mere nothing,” he said, “for a man who has good blood in his veins,
as my friend here has. A little soreness for a week, perhaps, a
stiffness for a fortnight, and then only a memory.”
“Indeed, I am wondrous pleased to hear it,” said Richelieu, shaking his
hand warmly, and leaving a gold piece in it, I do not doubt. “But what
have we here?” and he turned towards the door, whence came a sudden
commotion.
“For the king!” cried a voice. “For the king! Make way, messieurs.”
“The regent!” exclaimed some one, and then a strange stillness fell
upon the place, save for Richelieu, who hummed one of Lulli’s gay airs.
The crowd parted to right and left, and I saw advancing towards us a
large, heavy-set man, with red face and eyes which seemed to run one
through.
“Who hath done this?” he cried. “Who hath killed the Comte de Gare, one
of my faithful friends?”
“To me belongs the honor, monsieur,” said Richelieu, in a cool voice,
but bowing low. “I regret to learn he was a friend of yours, for he was
a coward and a villain, and deserved to die by the rope, not by the
sword like a gentleman.”
The regent’s face turned from red to purple, and I looked to see him
rush upon Richelieu, and half drew my sword. But with an effort he
restrained himself, and his next words came in a voice strangely calm,
yet infinitely more menacing than any violence could have been.
“Ah, I have the honor of seeing the Duc de Richelieu, have I not? But
they tell me there were two men opposed to de Gare.”
“Monsieur,” cried Richelieu, “whoever said that lied. A friend of mine
interposed to save me from a treacherous dagger-thrust, which the
coward would have given me when he saw himself hard pressed.”
“And where is this friend, may I inquire?” asked the regent, looking
about with an ominous light in his eyes.
My hat was sweeping the floor in an instant.
“I have that honor,” I said.
“I do not know you, monsieur,” sneered Orleans, looking me over from
head to foot. “I should say, however, that you were from the country,
and I warn you that you have fallen into bad company. You would better
leave it.”
“I choose my own company, monsieur, and ask no one to do it for me,” I
answered, for the insolent look of the man had set my blood on fire. “I
desire no better than that I have already had.”
“Then by my faith you shall see more of it!” cried the regent, losing
his calmness in an instant. “Here, lieutenant,” he called to an officer
near the door, “bring in a squad of guards and arrest these men. I will
see if we are to have roistering and murder at mid-day in the streets
of Paris.”
“’Tis useless to resist,” said Richelieu to me in a low voice as I drew
my sword. “He will not dare use much severity.”
“Your swords, messieurs,” said the lieutenant of police, advancing
towards us at the head of a dozen men. Richelieu broke his over his
knee and threw it to the floor. I placed my foot on mine and snapped
the blade.
“To the Bastille with them!” cried the regent, beside himself with
rage. “You shall answer for them with your head, lieutenant, so take
care they do not escape.”
The officer simply bowed, but his cheek flushed with anger. We were led
to the street, where I saw the regent’s coach standing. As we emerged
from the café I caught a glimpse of two faces which seemed familiar,
and looking again, I recognized the men who had entered the place with
de Gare. I understood then how it happened that the regent had arrived
so opportunely. They had doubtless warned him of de Gare’s peril, but
too late to save his life.
A moment later we were mounted on two horses, and, surrounded by our
body-guard, galloped briskly away towards the Bastille, in which, I
reflected, I was like to find much less of comfort than in the palatial
Hotel de Richelieu. Yet a man must take the lean with the fat, and I
was far from repining.