(1)
thousands of years before, the ancient and forgotten race, drowned now in the mists of time, which had set up in those parts the long ranks of menhirs on the lande, had raised in the forest, over the remains of some dead chieftain, a great dolmen of granite. the death-chamber had long ago been rifled of bones and treasure, but it still stood, no different from what it had been for the last few hundred years, with ferns growing out of the cracks, and one of its supports prone, and an aged oak, immeasurably younger than itself, watching over it. and to this spot the two men, with passions no less primitive in their hearts, made their way; for on one side of the moulin-aux-fées, as the peasants called it, there was a little clearing.
it was true that m. de kersaint had said, when pistols were named, that they must go further than this. but when they beheld the clearing, so inviting in the cold light that flooded it from a moon well over the tree tops, its suitability to the work they had in hand struck both of them so strongly that they agreed it was not necessary to go on. they had already put a considerable distance between them and the clos-aux-grives, and the little wind that walked the forest to-night had its light feet set in the opposite direction. they would risk the sound of a shot carrying back to the farm.
so, under the impassive gaze of the moon, which alone made their culpable proceedings possible at this hour, they measured out ten paces, first one of them, then the other, and set each a bit of dead branch to mark their respective positions. when this was done to their satisfaction they found themselves standing at the comte’s mark examining their pistols for the last time.
“i shall not cock mine until you have fired, monsieur,” announced the marquis. “if there were to be an accident—such things have happened—you might think i had broken our compact.”
“i have no fear, monsieur, of an accident of that kind,” returned de brencourt, buttoning his coat up to the throat as he spoke. “however, as you please—but you are surely going to take off that white scarf of yours?” and as the marquis looked down a little doubtfully at the white scarf of leadership round his waist, his opponent added hotly, “good god, man, do you think i am going to stand up and fire at you unless you do? it would be murder! and your sword—the hilt catches the moonlight.” his own lay already at his feet.
“very well,” agreed the marquis, and began, almost, it seemed reluctantly, to detach the scarf. having unwound it he paused with it in his hand.
“i have a request to make of you, comte, before i go to my place,” he said, not altogether in the tone of one making a request. “the disagreement between us being a purely personal matter, i should be glad to have your word that you intend to respect my secret, whatever the result of our encounter?”
de brencourt looked at him. it was some satisfaction to have him begging for terms—no, begging was certainly not the word for one who spoke like that.
“yes, i promise you that,” he answered. “whatever the result of our encounter, i will keep your secret as far as in me lies.”
“thank you,” returned his adversary. and, throwing the white scarf from him, he turned and walked to his place.
artus de brencourt waited a second or two, his pistol by his side. this was the moment he had hoped and schemed for, and it was sweet. yet now that it had come, it suddenly seemed incredible that they two should be facing each other like this. a few months ago, who would have predicted it? . . . no use to think of that now, nor, since he was a gentleman, with his enemy’s life in his hands, did he desire to keep that enemy in mortal suspense longer than was needful. best be as quick about the business as possible. he was a notoriously good shot. . . .
“are you ready?” he called out.
and the marquis de kersaint, standing like a dark statue in the moonlight, his face merely a pale blur, his arms folded on his breast, silently nodded.
the comte de brencourt drew a deep breath, raised his pistol, and took a long and steady aim for the statue’s heart.
yet when he had got the barrel on the mark his hand began to shake. he bit his lip. if only de kersaint had his own weapon cocked, were not standing there defenceless to be shot at by the man who had insulted him. it took some courage to do that! and he had called him a coward. . . . had it not been an affair of honour it had felt a little too much like murder for his taste after all. yet he intended to kill valentine’s husband. and the iron sanction of the code which kept the other there as a mere target for his bullet kept him there too, determined to complete his work.
. . . but—could he complete it? the comte had no idea how deceptive even the most brilliant moonlight can be, for now, at a short ten paces’ distance, he found to his mortification that he could not really distinguish the outline of de kersaint’s body, though he could see it as a mass. that scarf would have been useful, yet it did not occur to him to regret it. bending all his will anew to the task he succeeded in steadying his hand, and his forefinger began to close round the trigger. in another second or two. . . . would the marquis spin round, as a man sometimes did when shot through the heart, or would he fall forward on his face? . . . odd that he should think, at such a moment, of the execution of charette three years ago at nantes, when, as the tale went, the indomitable spirit that dwelt in the riddled body of the royalist chief had held him upright for a moment in death, with six balls in him. de kersaint would have but one—sent there by a comrade. he, artus de brencourt, was doing the directory’s work for them! . . . no, he was doing valentine’s! one vision of her as he had seen her in her homely dress at mirabel, one fleeting thought of those years of neglect before the storm, of the life she had led since, and those half regrets were swept aside like gnats before a gale. the baffling moonlight paralysed him no longer. he corrected his aim for the second time, set his teeth, and pressed the trigger.
the shot went echoing with startling effect in the silver silence; it seemed to reverberate even from the empty dolmen. a scuttling of some frightened creature took place in the undergrowth, and, as the light smoke cleared away, rising ghostlike towards the moon, the comte saw that m. de kersaint was staggering a little. he took a step backwards, threw out his left arm and regained his balance somewhat abruptly, while the uncocked pistol slid with a rustle and a thud into the bracken at his feet. either to recover it, or because he could not help himself, he sank to one knee and appeared to be groping for it with his left hand; then, abandoning the attempt, he got rather unsteadily to his feet again, and stood a moment with his head bent, and his right arm still across his breast, where he had kept it all the time.
“you are hit, monsieur? can you not return my fire?” called out de brencourt, still standing ready to receive it.
m. de kersaint shook his head, then, turning his back on him, walked to the nearest tree and stood leaning against it, always holding his right arm to his breast, but now supporting it with the other. a doubtless annoyed owl sailed out of the branches above him with a hoot.
and, after all, his adversary never even paused to ask himself whether he were sorry he had not succeeded. . . . in a moment he was at his side.
“where are you hit, monsieur le marquis?”
“in my right arm,” said his opponent briefly. “you have disabled me. i cannot return your fire.”
“i am sorry for that,” said the comte rather stiffly. “are you sure you cannot—with your left hand?”
“i am sorry too,” said the marquis de kersaint, lifting his head. “believe me, i should not have done you the poor compliment of firing in the air! but it would be a farce—my left hand. i am extremely right-handed; so of what use to risk the noise of another shot. i fancy my arm is broken. let us get back.” he did not seem to know that, even as he spoke, the blood, very dark in the moonlight, was running through the fingers of the hand which held his wounded arm pressed up to his body.
“but first,” interposed the comte quickly, “we must stop this bleeding, however roughly. it is not from the artery, i trust?—no, i think not. can you take your coat off . . . i’d better slit up the sleeve, in any case. sit down on this stone, de kersaint; that will be easier for both of us.”
and, supporting him under his left arm, he guided his wounded enemy to the fallen block of the dolmen.
the marquis sat down obediently, and lent his head for a moment on his left hand. it was evident, though not a sound passed his lips, that he was in a good deal of pain.
“no, don’t do that, comte!” he said suddenly, as de brencourt, kneeling by him in the fern, began to take out a knife. “one doesn’t want to make more . . . parade . . . about this business than one can avoid. help me out of the coat instead.” and he began to unbutton it.
“much better let me slit the sleeve,” objected de brencourt with reason. however, seeing that the marquis was determined, he unfastened his swordbelt, and as carefully as he could, stripped off the long uniform coat.
“i suppose you don’t wish to preserve this?” he remarked, and, ripping up the drenched shirt-sleeve, examined the injury. in the outer side of the marquis de kersaint’s forearm, midway between wrist and elbow, was a small round aperture, from which the blood was welling in a stream so steady as to suggest that it would never cease.
“the ball is still there, of course,” observed its sender, absorbed in his examination. “otherwise——” he came to an abrupt pause, suddenly realising by how very little his messenger of death had fallen short of its goal.
“otherwise it would be in my heart, you were going to say,” finished the marquis with composure.
“perhaps it was stopped by one of the bones,” muttered de brencourt, avoiding his eye. “i expect there is a breakage, as you say. . . . however, i had best tie it up as quickly as possible. i shall need your handkerchief as well as mine—perhaps your scarf too. it is bleeding like a fountain.”
carefully as a surgeon, and with something of a surgeon’s dispassionate interest, he staunched and bandaged the injury which he himself had made—no bad exemplar, at that moment, of what there was gallant and chivalrous in a practice which had little enough to commend it.
“so there was only one shot after all,” observed m. de kersaint presently. “did you mean to kill me, comte?”
m. de brencourt, tightening the last knot, looked at him with an odd expression. “yes,” he replied.
“i thought so,” returned the marquis coolly. “i am afraid, then, that this must have been somewhat of a disappointment. you take it very well. it was the moonlight, i suppose? in many ways i should have been glad of your success.”
a dark flush ran over his opponent’s face. he made no reply, and laying down the bandaged arm gently on its possessor’s knee, began to scrub at his own bloody hands with a frond of bracken. when he had got them comparatively clean he threw it away, got up from his knees, took a turn or two and came back.
“marquis,” he said, rather stiffly, “i aimed as well as i could. evidently it was not to be. . . . and now, if you will allow me, i should like to take back the term i applied to you this evening. it is not applicable—and i do not think that i ever believed it was. but i meant you to fight me. you can guess why . . . and we need not go into what is done with. . . . and now that we have met, and blood has flowed—and i sincerely regret, as i said, that it should be yours alone——” he stopped.
the marquis de kersaint, still without his coat, got up from the fallen stone. to him also a duel was sacramental, and bloodshed, at the risk of life, did serve, between gentlemen, to wash out enmity. to what degree, however, that stain was ineffaceable, they could hardly know then, for they were both moved, little as they showed it, by the near passage of the dark angel.
“thank you, m. de brencourt,” he said quietly. “allow me to apologise, in my turn, for the blow i struck you—though i think you understand why i struck. i am quite willing to take your hand if you are willing to take mine; indeed, i was going to propose that, as neither of us after all is to remain permanently beside the moulin-aux-fées, we had better try, for the king’s sake, to forget, if we can, what has passed between us. i at least am content to try. i do not wish to change my second-in-command.”
“nor i to change my leader!” cried the comte, really shaken by the generosity which could forget his deliberate campaign of insults. he too held out his left hand, and they sealed the compact. perhaps at the moment he almost forgot how much less complete the covenant was than the other imagined—forgot what he was holding back and meant to go on holding back. . . .
“and now,” he said, recovering himself, “if you insist on getting into that sleeve again.” he picked up the redingote. “it is a long way back—at least i fear you will find it so, de kersaint.”
“i only wish it were longer,” said the marquis, with a little frown. “they have such sharp ears, those young men of mine—i do not think the bone is broken after all. help me into my coat, and lend me your arm, and i shall do very well.”
(2)
the clos-aux-grives at last, white in the moonlight, between the sparser trees of the forest’s verge. it was high time. but before the duellists were quite near enough to give the countersign to the sentry, whose challenge had just rung out, a figure from within the courtyard, shouting something to him, vaulted the low wall by the chouan and raced towards them. so vehement was its haste that the two gentlemen stopped. it was then seen that the athlete was the chevalier de la vergne, in such a hurry that he had hardly time to pull himself up and to salute.
“i saw you coming, monsieur le marquis,” he exclaimed breathlessly. “there is great news—m. l’abbé has come back! . . . what, are you hurt, sir!”
(“damnation!” said the comte de brencourt under his breath.)
“yes, a trifle,” returned the marquis carelessly. “a stray blue in the forest; nothing to worry about. come, comte, let us go and welcome the abbé. this is indeed good news—if it means his success.” and, loosing the comte’s arm, as much, perhaps, to show his ability to do so as because the comte displayed a tendency to be rooted to the spot, he began to walk towards the entrance.
“o, monsieur le marquis,” exclaimed the young officer, accompanying him, “are you sure that it is not much? why, i can see the blood on your sleeve . . . and on your breast too! take my arm, de grace,—and you will let me turn out the guard at once, will you not?”
“that is unnecessary, my dear boy,” replied his leader; “so is your support. m. de brencourt settled the blue for me.—good-night, sans-souci,” he said, as the sentry presented arms.
“but you will not find the blue, la vergne—he got away after all,” added the comte quickly from behind. to him the duel was a secondary matter now—and, in itself, the abbé’s success or failure also. what other information had the priest brought from mirabel . . . and how soon would he divulge it? would it be possible to see him before de trélan did? hardly . . .
“and where is m. chassin?” enquired m. de kersaint directly they got inside, when the light from the sconce on the wall instantly betrayed to artamène’s distressed but ever observant eyes how pale he was—and with a smear of blood on his cheek too. “in my room?—then i will see him at once.”
“let me light you up the staircase, messieurs!” cried the zealous artamène, taking down the sconce.
“are not the stairs lighted as usual?” asked the comte irritably. “yes, of course they are. no, go to your bed, la vergne, and don’t harass m. de kersaint any more!”
“you forget, la vergne is officer of the guard to-night,” said the marquis with a little smile. “goodnight, my boy. don’t bother about that blue. as for my arm, the abbé will do anything further that is necessary.”
and he went off, followed by the comte. artamène looked after them, uttering wicked words below his breath; then he replaced the sconce, tiptoed into the “nursery,” and picked his way among the dozen or so slumbering forms there till he came to lucien du boisfossé’s pallet in a corner.
“lucien, wake up!” he whispered, stooping over him and gently shaking him. “i want to tell you something!”
astoundingly, lucien opened his eyes at once. “don’t blow into my ear like that, officer of the guard!” he returned. “and there’s no need to poke me so. i was awake. i have not been to sleep.”
“great heavens!” ejaculated artamène. this was indeed an evening of surprises.
“i was,” said lucien, complacently, “composing a proclamation in rhyme to the patauds of this canton. it was to begin——”
“never mind that,” cut in artamène ruthlessly. “two much more interesting things have happened while you have been asl——i mean awake. the first is, that m. l’abbé has returned from mirabel——”
lucien sat up in bed. “laus deo!” he exclaimed. “and has he got—it?”
“he wouldn’t tell me,” said the enquirer, “but i think from his manner that he has not been unsuccessful. however, the second thing is even more momentous. m. le marquis and m. le comte have just come back from a moonlight stroll in the direction of the forest, m. le marquis as white as a sheet, with blood all over the sleeve of his coat and his right arm tucked into his breast.”
“good god!” ejaculated lucien, bounding upon his couch.
“chut! don’t wake the others! (it will be impossible to keep it quiet, though.) it appears that they met a blue in the forest—or at any rate a blue was in the forest, dropped, perhaps like an acorn from a tree, for i know not how otherwise he could have been there—and he shot at and wounded m. le marquis—one doesn’t yet know how seriously—and then, apparently, m. de brencourt settled the hash of the blue. at least, he fired and hit him; though he thinks the fellow got away. now, what do you think of that for a breton night’s entertainment? don’t sit on your bed looking like an owl, monsieur du boisfossé!”
“an owl,” replied the young man unperturbed, “is the emblem of wisdom, also of us chouans. i am thinking this, my artamène, that while lying here engaged in the labours of composition, i heard, far away—so far away that i did not think it worth while disturbing the slumbers of the officer of the guard——”
“well, what did you hear?” asked his friend, kicking him gently in return for this thrust.
“a shot—one shot,” replied lucien.
artamène’s mobile face changed, “of course you will repeat that i was asleep, which is a lie. but i never heard it—nor the sentries, i presume, since none of them reported it.”
“but, my dear friend,” enquired lucien earnestly, “if i was able to hear one shot, why didn’t i hear two?”
they stared at each other in the dim light, these two young investigators, the one sitting up in his shirt on his pallet, the other, booted and sword-girt, kneeling beside him.
“you mean,” said the latter after a moment, “that if you heard the shot which this solitary blue fired at m. le marquis, why did you not hear the shot which m. de brencourt fired at the blue?”
“that is my meaning,” responded lucien weightily.
“so that—provided you were not dreaming—there was only one shot fired . . . and that was fired at the marquis.”
lucien nodded. “obviously, since he has been hit.”
“and that shot could not have fired itself.”
“it is usual to infer a finger on the trigger.”
“the question is, whose finger?—no, lucien, we had better not go any further! as we have already said, there has been storm in the atmosphere lately. and this desire for exercise in the moonlight! . . . yet it must have been all en règle, even though there were no witnesses, since they came back together on good terms—arm in arm, in fact. but for the marquis to proceed to such an extremity!—i never did like m. de brencourt!”
“i think you are going too fast, mon ami,” remarked the soberer lucien. “they would never have chosen pistols, and risked being heard at headquarters.”
“they seem to have chosen a pistol, however,” retorted artamène. “whatever has happened, i am convinced that there has been the devil of a lot of lying done to-night . . . and that there will be even more to-morrow!”
“and who——”
“charlemagne, i regret to say,” responded his friend, shaking his head, “—charlemagne, who recently read me such a homily on truthfulness!”
