HOW A FRENCHMAN MANAGES AN AFFAIR.
While the contract of this duel was being discussed by the president and
the captain—this dreadful, savage duel, in which each adversary became
a man-hunter—Michel Ardan was resting from the fatigues of his triumph.
_Resting_ is hardly an appropriate expression, for American beds rival
marble or granite tables for hardness.
Ardan was sleeping, then, badly enough, tossing about between the cloths
which served him for sheets, and he was dreaming of making a more
comfortable couch in his projectile when a frightful noise disturbed his
dreams. Thundering blows shook his door. They seemed to be caused by some
iron instrument. A great deal of loud talking was distinguishable in this
racket, which was rather too early in the morning. "Open the door," some
one shrieked, "for Heaven's sake!" Ardan saw no reason for complying with
a demand so roughly expressed. However, he got up and opened the door
just as it was giving way before the blows of this determined visitor.
The secretary of the Gun Club burst into the room. A bomb could not have
made more noise or have entered the room with less ceremony.
"Last night," cried J. T. Maston, _ex abrupto_, "our president was
publicly insulted during the meeting. He provoked his adversary, who is
none other than Captain Nicholl! They are fighting this morning in the
wood of Skersnaw. I heard all particulars from the mouth of Barbicane
himself. If he is killed, then our scheme is at end. We must prevent this
duel; and one man alone has enough influence over Barbicane to stop him,
and that man is Michel Ardan."
Illustration: MASTON BURST INTO THE ROOM.
While J. T. Maston was speaking, Michel Ardan, without interrupting him,
had hastily put on his clothes; and, in less than two minutes, the two
friends were making for the suburbs of Tampa Town with rapid strides.
It was during this walk that Maston told Ardan the state of the case. He
told him the real causes of the hostility between Barbicane and Nicholl;
how it was of old date, and why, thanks to unknown friends, the president
and the captain had, as yet, never met face to face. He added that it
arose simply from a rivalry between iron plates and shot, and, finally,
that the scene at the meeting was only the long-wished-for opportunity
for Nicholl to pay off an old grudge.
Nothing is more dreadful than private duels in America. The two adversaries
attack each other like wild beasts. Then it is that they might well covet
those wonderful properties of the Indians of the prairies—their quick
intelligence, their ingenious cunning, their scent of the enemy. A single
mistake, a moment's hesitation, a single false step may cause death. On
these occasions Yankees are often accompanied by their dogs, and keep up
the struggle for hours.
"What demons you are!" cried Michel Ardan, when his companion had depicted
this scene to him with much energy.
"Yes we are," replied J. T. modestly; "but we had better make haste."
Though Michel Ardan and he had crossed the plain still wet with dew, and
had taken the shortest route over creeks and ricefields, they could not
reach Skersnaw under five hours and a half.
Barbicane must have passed the border half an hour ago.
There was an old bushman working there, occupied in selling faggots from
trees that had been levelled by his axe.
Maston ran towards him, saying, "Have you seen a man go into the wood,
armed with a rifle? Barbicane, the president, my best friend?"
The worthy secretary of the Gun Club thought that his president must be
known by all the world. But the bushman did not seem to understand him.
"A hunter?" said Ardan.
"A hunter? Yes," replied the bushman.
"Long ago?"
"About an hour."
"Too late!" cried Maston.
"Have you heard any gun-shots?" asked Ardan.
"No!"
"Not one?"
"Not one! that hunter did not look as if he knew how to hunt!"
"What is to be done?" said Maston.
"We must go into the wood, at the risk of getting a ball which is not
intended for us."
"Ah!" cried Maston, in a tone which could not be mistaken, "I would
rather have twenty balls in my own head than one in Barbicane's."
"Forward, then," said Ardan, pressing his companion's hand.
A few moments later the two friends had disappeared in the copse. It was
a dense thicket, in which rose huge cypresses, sycamores, tulip-trees,
olives, tamarinds, oaks, and magnolias. These different trees had
interwoven their branches into an inextricable maze, through which the
eye could not penetrate. Michel Ardan and Maston walked side by side in
silence through the tall grass, cutting themselves a path through the
strong creepers, casting curious glances on the bushes, and momentarily
expecting to hear the sound of rifles. As for the traces which Barbicane
ought to have left of his passage through the wood, there was not a
vestige of them visible: so they followed the barely perceptible paths
along which Indians had tracked some enemy, and which the dense foliage
darkly overshadowed.
After an hour spent in vain pursuit the two stopped in intensified
anxiety.
"It must be all over," said Maston, discouraged. "A man like Barbicane
would not dodge with his enemy, or ensnare him, would not even manœuvre!
He is too open, too brave. He has gone straight ahead, right into the
danger, and doubtless far enough from the bushman for the wind to prevent
his hearing the report of the rifles."
"But surely," replied Michel Ardan, "since we entered the wood we should
have heard!"
"And what if we came too late?" cried Maston in tones of despair.
For once Ardan had no reply to make, he and Maston resuming their walk
in silence. From time to time, indeed, they raised great shouts, calling
alternately Barbicane and Nicholl, neither of whom, however, answered
their cries. Only the birds, awakened by the sound, flew past them
and disappeared among the branches, while some frightened deer fled
precipitately before them.
For another hour their search was continued. The greater part of the
wood had been explored. There was nothing to reveal the presence of the
combatants. The information of the bushman was after all doubtful, and
Ardan was about to propose their abandoning this useless pursuit, when
all at once Maston stopped.
"Hush!" said he, "there is some one down there!"
"Some one?" repeated Michel Ardan.
"Yes; a man! He seems motionless. His rifle is not in his hands. What
can he be doing?"
"But can you recognize him?" asked Ardan, whose short sight was of little
use to him in such circumstances.
"Yes! yes! He is turning towards us," answered Maston.
"And it is?"
"Captain Nicholl!"
"Nicholl?" cried Michel Ardan, feeling a terrible pang of grief.
"Nicholl unarmed! He has, then, no longer any fear of his adversary!"
"Let us go to him," said Michel Ardan, "and find out the truth."
But he and his companion had barely taken fifty steps when they paused to
examine the captain more attentively. They expected to find a bloodthirsty
man, happy in his revenge!
On seeing him, they remained stupefied.
A net, composed of very fine meshes, hung between two enormous
tulip-trees, and in the midst of this snare, with its wings entangled,
was a poor little bird, uttering pitiful cries, while it vainly struggled
to escape. The bird-catcher who had laid this snare was no human being,
but a venomous spider, peculiar to that country, as large as a pigeon's
egg, and armed with enormous claws. The hideous creature, instead of
rushing on its prey, had beaten a sudden retreat and taken refuge in
the upper branches of the tulip-tree, for a formidable enemy menaced its
stronghold.
Here, then, was Nicholl, his gun on the ground, forgetful of danger,
trying if possible to save the victim from its cobweb prison. At last it
was accomplished, and the little bird flew joyfully away and disappeared.
Nicholl lovingly watched its flight, when he heard these words pronounced
by a voice full of emotion,—
"You are indeed a brave man!"
He turned. Michel Ardan was before him, repeating in a different tone,—
"And a kindhearted one!"
"Michel Ardan!" cried the captain. "Why are you here?"
"To press your hand, Nicholl, and to prevent you from either killing
Barbicane or being killed by him."
"Barbicane!" returned the captain. "I have been looking for him for the
last two hours in vain. Where is he hiding?"
Illustration: IN THE MIDST OF THIS SNARE WAS A POOR LITTLE BIRD.
"Nicholl!" said Michel Ardan, "this is not courteous! we ought always to
treat an adversary with respect; rest assured if Barbicane is still alive
we shall find him all the more easily; because if he has not, like you,
been amusing himself with freeing oppressed birds, he must be looking
for _you_. When we have found him, Michel Ardan tells you this, there
will be no duel between you."
"Between President Barbicane and myself," gravely replied Nicholl, "there
is a rivalry which the death of one of us—"
"Pooh, pooh!" said Ardan. "Brave fellows like you indeed! you shall not
fight!"
"I will fight, sir!"
"No!"
"Captain," said J. T. Maston, with much feeling, "I am a friend of the
president's, his _alter ego_, his second self; if you really must kill
some one, _shoot me!_ it will do just as well!"
"Sir," Nicholl replied, seizing his rifle convulsively, "these jokes—"
"Our friend Maston is not joking," replied Ardan. "I fully understand
his idea of being killed himself in order to save his friend. But neither
he nor Barbicane will fall before the balls of Captain Nicholl. Indeed I
have so attractive a proposal to make to the two rivals, that both will
be eager to accept it."
"What is it?" asked Nicholl with manifest incredulity.
"Patience!" exclaimed Ardan. "I can only reveal it in the presence of
Barbicane."
"Let us go in search of him then!" cried the captain.
The three men started off at once; the captain having discharged his
rifle threw it over his shoulder, and advanced in silence.
Another half-hour passed, and the pursuit was still fruitless. Maston was
oppressed by sinister forebodings. He looked fiercely at Nicholl, asking
himself whether the captain's vengeance had been already satisfied, and
the unfortunate Barbicane, shot, was perhaps lying dead on some bloody
track. The same thought seemed to occur to Ardan; and both were casting
inquiring glances on Nicholl, when suddenly Maston paused.
The motionless figure of a man leaning against a gigantic catalpa twenty
feet off appeared, half-veiled by the foliage. "It is he!" said Maston.
Barbicane never moved. Ardan looked at the captain, but he did not wince.
Ardan went forward crying,—
"Barbicane, Barbicane!"
No answer! Ardan rushed towards his friend; but in the act of seizing
his arms, he stopped short and uttered a cry of surprise.
Barbicane, pencil in hand, was tracing geometrical figures in a memorandum
book, whilst his unloaded rifle lay beside him on the ground.
Absorbed in his studies, Barbicane, in his turn forgetful of the duel,
had seen and heard nothing.
When Ardan took his hand, he looked up and stared at his visitor in
astonishment.
"Ah, it is you!" he cried at last. "I have found it, my friend, I have
found it!"
"What?"
"My plan!"
"What plan?"
"The plan for counteracting the effect of the shock at the departure of
the projectile!"
"Indeed?" said Michel Ardan, looking at the captain out of the corner of
his eye.
"Yes! water! simply water, which will act as a spring—ah! Maston,"
cried Barbicane, "you here also?"
"Himself," replied Ardan; "and permit me to introduce to you at the same
time the worthy Captain Nicholl!"
"Nicholl!" cried Barbicane, who jumped up at once. "Pardon me, captain,
I had quite forgotten—I am ready!"
Michel Ardan interfered, without giving the two enemies time to say
anything more.
Illustration: "GO WITH ME, AND SEE WHETHER WE ARE STOPPED
ON OUR JOURNEY."
"Thank Heaven!" said he. "It is a happy thing that brave men like you two
did not meet sooner! we should now have been mourning for one or other
of you. But, thanks to Providence, which has interfered, there is now no
further cause for alarm. When one forgets one's anger in mechanics or in
cobwebs, it is a sign that the anger is not dangerous."
Michel Ardan then told the president how the captain had been found
occupied.
"I put it to you now," said he in conclusion, "are two such good fellows
as you are made on purpose to smash each other's skulls with shot?"
There was in "the situation" somewhat of the ridiculous, something
quite unexpected; Michel Ardan saw this, and determined to effect a
reconciliation.
"My good friends," said he, with his most bewitching smile, "this is
nothing but a misunderstanding. Nothing more! well! to prove that it is
all over between you, accept frankly the proposal I am going to make to
you."
"Make it," said Nicholl.
"Our friend Barbicane believes that his projectile will go straight to
the moon?"
"Yes, certainly," replied the president.
"And our friend Nicholl is persuaded it will fall back upon the earth?"
"I am certain of it," cried the captain.
"Good!" said Ardan. "I cannot pretend to make you agree; but I suggest
this:—Go with me, and so see whether we are stopped on our journey."
"What?" exclaimed J. T. Maston, stupefied.
The two rivals, on this sudden proposal, looked steadily at each other.
Barbicane waited for the captain's answer. Nicholl watched for the
decision of the president.
"Well?" said Michel. "There is now no fear of the shock!"
"Done!" cried Barbicane.
But quickly as he pronounced the word, he was not before Nicholl.
"Hurrah! bravo! hip! hip! hurrah!" cried Michel, giving a hand to each
of the late adversaries. "Now that it is all settled, my friends, allow
me to treat you after French fashion. Let us be off to breakfast!"