There were no formalities over measurements of blades or selection of ground. M. le Marquis removed his sword-belt and scabbard, but declined—not considering it worth while for the sake of so negligible an opponent—to divest himself either of his shoes or his coat. Tall, lithe, and athletic, he stood to face the no less tall, but very delicate and frail, M. de Vilmorin. The latter also disdained to make any of the usual preparations. Since he recognized that it could avail him nothing to strip, he came on guard fully dressed, two hectic spots above the cheekbones burning on his otherwise grey face.
M. de Chabrillane, leaning upon a cane—for he had relinquished his sword to M. de Vilmorin—looked on with quiet interest. Facing him on the other side of the combatants stood André-Louis, the palest of the four, staring from fevered eyes, twisting and untwisting clammy hands.
His every instinct was to fling himself between the antagonists, to protest against and frustrate this meeting. That sane impulse was curbed, however, by the consciousness of its futility. To calm him, he clung to the conviction that the issue could not really be very serious. If the obligations of Philippe’s honour compelled him to cross swords with the man he had struck, M. de La Tour d’Azyr’s birth compelled him no less to do no serious hurt to the unfledged lad he had so grievously provoked. M. le Marquis, after all, was a man of honour. He could intend no more than to administer a lesson; sharp, perhaps, but one by which his opponent must live to profit. André-Louis clung obstinately to that for comfort.
Steel beat on steel, and the men engaged. The Marquis presented to his opponent the narrow edge of his upright body, his knees slightly flexed and converted into living springs, whilst M. de Vilmorin stood squarely, a full target, his knees wooden. Honour and the spirit of fair play alike cried out against such a match.
The encounter was very short, of course. In youth, Philippe had received the tutoring in swordplay that was given to every boy born into his station of life. And so he knew at least the rudiments of what was now expected of him. But what could rudiments avail him here? Three disengages completed the exchanges, and then without any haste the Marquis slid his right foot along the moist turf, his long, graceful body extending itself in a lunge that went under M. de Vilmorin’s clumsy guard, and with the utmost deliberation he drove his blade through the young man’s vitals.
André-Louis sprang forward just in time to catch his friend’s body under the armpits as it sank. Then, his own legs bending beneath the weight of it, he went down with his burden until he was kneeling on the damp turf. Philippe’s limp head lay against André-Louis’ left shoulder; Philippe’s relaxed arms trailed at his sides; the blood welled and bubbled from the ghastly wound to saturate the poor lad’s garments.
With white face and twitching lips, André-Louis looked up at M. de La Tour d’Azyr, who stood surveying his work with a countenance of grave but remorseless interest.
“You have killed him!” cried André-Louis.
“Of course.”
The Marquis ran a lace handkerchief along his blade to wipe it. As he let the dainty fabric fall, he explained himself. “He had, as I told him, a too dangerous gift of eloquence.”
And he turned away, leaving completest understanding with André-Louis. Still supporting the limp, draining body, the young man called to him.
“Come back, you cowardly murderer, and make yourself quite safe by killing me too!”
The Marquis half turned, his face dark with anger. Then M. de Chabrillane set a restraining hand upon his arm. Although a party throughout to the deed, the Chevalier was a little appalled now that it was done. He had not the high stomach of M. de La Tour d’Azyr, and he was a good deal younger.
“Come away,” he said. “The lad is raving. They were friends.”
“You heard what he said?” quoth the Marquis.
“Nor can he, or you, or any man deny it,” flung back André-Louis. “Yourself, monsieur, you made confession when you gave me now the reason why you killed him. You did it because you feared him.”
“If that were true—what, then?” asked the great gentleman.
“Do you ask? Do you understand of life and humanity nothing but how to wear a coat and dress your hair—oh, yes, and to handle weapons against boys and priests? Have you no mind to think, no soul into which you can turn its vision? Must you be told that it is a coward’s part to kill the thing he fears, and doubly a coward’s part to kill in this way? Had you stabbed him in the back with a knife, you would have shown the courage of your vileness. It would have been a vileness undisguised. But you feared the consequences of that, powerful as you are; and so you shelter your cowardice under the pretext of a duel.”
The Marquis shook off his cousin’s hand, and took a step forward, holding now his sword like a whip. But again the Chevalier caught and held him.
“No, no, Gervais! Let be, in God’s name!”
“Let him come, monsieur,” raved André-Louis, his voice thick and concentrated. “Let him complete his coward’s work on me, and thus make himself safe from a coward’s wages.”
M. de Chabrillane let his cousin go. He came white to the lips, his eyes glaring at the lad who so recklessly insulted him. And then he checked. It may be that he remembered suddenly the relationship in which this young man was popularly believed to stand to the Seigneur de Gavrillac, and the well-known affection in which the Seigneur held him. And so he may have realized that if he pushed this matter further, he might find himself upon the horns of a dilemma. He
