'Agreed!' answered Morok.
'Come, gentlemen, attention! we must follow every movement,' resumed Ninny Moulin. 'Let us first see if the bottles are of the same size—equality of weapons being the foremost condition.'
During these preparations, profound silence reigned in the room. The courage of the majority of those present, animated for a moment by the arrival of the punch, was soon again depressed by gloomy thoughts, as they vaguely foresaw the danger of the contest between Morok and Jacques. This impression joined to the sad thoughts occasioned by the incident of the coffin, darkened by degrees many a countenance. Some of the guests, indeed, continued to make a show of rejoicing, but their gayety appeared forced. Under certain circumstances, the smallest things will have the most powerful effect. We have said that, after sunset, a portion of this large room was plunged in obscurity; therefore, the guests who sat in the remote corners of the apartment, had no other light than the reflection of the flaming punch. Now it is well known, that the flame of burning spirit throws a livid, bluish tint over the countenance; it was therefore a strange, almost frightful spectacle, to see a number of the guests, who happened to be at a distance from the windows, in this ghastly and fantastic light.
The painter, more struck than all the rest by this effect of color, exclaimed: 'Look! at this end of the table, we might fancy ourselves feasting with cholera-patients, we are such fine blues and greens.'
This jest was not much relished. Fortunately, the loud voice of Ninny Moulin demanded attention, and for a moment turned the thoughts of the company.
'The lists are open,' cried the religious writer, really more frightened than he chose to appear. 'Are you ready, brave champions?' he added.
'We are ready,' said Morok and Jacques.
'Present! fire!' cried Ninny Moulin, clapping his hands. And the two drinkers each emptied a tumbler full of brandy at a draught.
Morok did not even knit his brow; his marble face remained impassible; with a steady hand he replaced his glass upon the table. But Jacques, as he put down his glass, could not conceal a slight convulsive trembling, caused by internal suffering.
'Bravely done!' cried Ninny Moulin. 'The quarter of a bottle of brandy at a draught—it is glorious! No one else here would be capable of such prowess. And now, worthy champions, if you believe me, you will stop where you are.'
'Give the word!' answered Jacques, intrepidly. And, with feverish and shaking hand, he seized the bottle; then suddenly, instead of filling his glass, he said to Morok: 'Bah! we want no glasses. It is braver to drink from the bottle. I dare you to it!'
Morok's only answer was to shrug his shoulders, and raise the neck of the bottle to his lips. Jacques hastened to imitate him. The thin, yellowish, transparent glass gave a perfect view of the progressive diminution of the liquor. The stony countenance of Morok, and the pale thin face of Jacques, on which already stood large drops of cold sweat, were now, as well as the features of the other guests, illuminated by the bluish light of the punch; every eye was fixed upon Morok and Jacques, with that barbarous curiosity which cruel spectacles seem involuntarily to inspire.
Jacques continued to drink, holding the bottle in his left hand; suddenly, he closed and tightened the fingers of his right hand with a convulsive movement; his hair clung to his icy forehead, and his countenance revealed an agony of pain. Yet he continued to drink; only, without removing his lips from the neck of the bottle, he lowered it for an instant, as if to recover breath. Just then, Jacques met the sardonic look of Morok, who continued to drink with his accustomed impassibility. Thinking that he saw the expression of insulting triumph in Morok's glance, Jacques raised his elbow abruptly, and drank with avidity a few drops more. But his strength was exhausted. A quenchless fire devoured his vitals. His sufferings were too intense, and he could no longer bear up against them. His head fell backwards, his jaws closed convulsively, he crushed the neck of the bottle between his teeth, his neck grew rigid, his limbs writhed with spasmodic action, and he became almost senseless.
'Jacques, my good fellow! it is nothing,' cried Morok, whose ferocious glance now sparkled with diabolical joy. Then, replacing his bottle on the table, he rose to go to the aid of Ninny Moulin, who was vainly endeavoring to hold Sleepinbuff.
This sudden attack had none of the symptoms of cholera. Yet terror seized upon all present; one of the women was taken with hysterics, and another uttered piercing cries and fainted away. Ninny Moulin, leaving Jacques in the hands of Morok, ran towards the door to seek for help,—when that door was suddenly opened, and the religious writer drew back in alarm, at the sight of the unexpected personage who appeared on the threshold.
CHAPTER XXII. MEMORIES.
The person before whom Ninny Moulin stopped in such extreme astonishment was the Bacchanal Queen.
Pale and wan, with, hair in disorder, hollow cheeks, sunken eyes, and clothed almost in rags, this brilliant and joyous heroine of so many mad orgies was now only the shadow of her former self. Misery and grief were impressed on that countenance, once so charming. Hardly had she entered the room, when Cephyse paused; her mournful and unquiet gaze strove to penetrate the half-obscurity of the apartment, in search of him she longed to see. Suddenly the girl started, and uttered a loud scream. She had just perceived, at the other side of a long table, by the bluish light of the punch, Jacques struggling with Morok and one of the guests, who were hardly able to restrain his convulsive movements.
At this sight Cephyse, in her first alarm, carried away by her affection, did what she had so often done in the intoxication of joy and pleasure. Light and agile, instead of losing precious time in making a long circuit, she sprang at once upon the table, passed nimbly through the array of plates and bottles, and with one spring was by the side of the sufferer.
'Jacques!' she exclaimed, without yet remarking the lion-tamer, and throwing herself on the neck of her lover. 'Jacques! it is I—Cephyse!'
That well-known voice, that heart-piercing cry, which came from the bottom of the soul, seemed not unheard by Sleepinbuff. He turned his head mechanically towards the Bacchanal Queen, without opening his eyes, and heaved a deep sigh; his stiffened limbs relaxed, a slight trembling succeeded to the convulsions, and in a few seconds his heavy eyelids were raised with an effort, so as to uncover his dull and wandering gaze. Mute with astonishment, the spectators of this scene felt an uneasy curiosity. Cephyse, kneeling beside her lover, bathed his hands in her tears, covered them with kisses, and exclaimed, in a voice broken by sobs, 'It is I—Cephyse—I have found you again—it was not my fault that I abandoned you! Forgive me, forgive—'
'Wretched woman!' cried Morok, irritated at this meeting, which might, perhaps, be fatal to his projects; 'do you wish to kill him? In his present state, this agitation is death. Begone!' So saying, he seized Cephyse suddenly by the arm, just as Jacques, waking, as it were, from a painful dream, began to distinguish what was passing around him.
'You! It is you!' cried the Bacchanal Queen, in amazement, as she recognized Morok, 'who separated me from Jacques!'
She paused; for the dim eye of the victim, as it rested upon her, grew suddenly bright.
'Cephyse!' murmured Jacques; 'is it you?'
'Yes, it is I,' answered she, in a voice of deep emotion; 'who have come—I will tell you—'
She was unable to continue, and, as she clasped her hands together, her pale, agitated, tearful countenance expressed her astonishment and despair at the mortal change which had taken place in the features of Jacques. He understood the cause of her surprise, and as he contemplated, in his turn, the suffering and emaciated countenance of Cephyse, he said to her, 'Poor girl! you also have had to bear much grief, much misery—I should hardly have known you.'
'Yes,' replied Cephyse, 'much grief—much misery—and worse than misery,' she added, trembling, whilst a deep blush overspread her pale features.
'Worse than misery?' said Jacques, astonished.
'But it is you who have suffered,' hastily resumed Cephyse, without answering her lover.
'Just now, I was going to make an end of it—your voice has recalled me for an instant—but I feel something here,' and he laid his hand upon his breast, 'which never gives quarter. It is all the same now—I have seen you—I shall die happy.'
