Francezka. Molly Elliot Seawell

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      My young cock-a-hoop and I being left facing each other on the pavement of the court, he said to me, with a terrific scowl in his handsome bright young face:

      “Who are you, sir?”

      “Babache,” said I. “Captain of Uhlans in the body-guard of Count Saxe.”

      “Well, Babache,” continues my young man, twirling his snuff-box as he had probably seen some older man do, “you were infernally in my way just now.”

      “Was I?” answered I. “Why did you not tell me at the time? I would have gone and jumped into the Seine—” and as I spoke, I flipped the snuff-box out of his hand. I never saw a youngster in a greater rage. Like Mademoiselle Capello, a minute before, he hated to be treated like a child.

      “Sir,” said he, “you shall eat your words.”

      “Sir,” I replied, “I have supped already; and besides, I never had any appetite for that dish.”

      With that he whipped out his sword, and I said, holding up my hand:

      “My lad, I am willing to fight, if that is what you are after; but being much older and wiser than you, I will tell you that our quarrel must not in any way 41 relate to the young lady who has just been rescued from a very painful predicament. Suppose we quarrel about Count Saxe?”

      “With all my heart,” responds Gaston Cheverny.

      “He is, as you know, the greatest man that ever lived,” said I.

      “Monsieur,” replied my young game chick, very politely, “I thought him a great man up to this very moment and felt honored by his notice—for I know him—but since I hear he is a friend and patron of yours, I swear I think he is the veriest poltroon, the ugliest man, the stupidest oaf I ever saw.”

      “Thank you,” said I. “Kindly name the place and hour where a meeting between us may be arranged.”

      “Why, here and now is the best time to arrange it. The garden of the Temple is retired enough. The moon is now rising—and with two good lanterns we can see to stick at each other—and we can each find an acquaintance within this very building.”

      I was astonished at the youth’s temerity—but I saw it was not bloodthirstiness, but rather a youthful longing for a pickle-herring tragedy. It was my lady Francezka over again. Having scolded that young lady with the air of a patriarch, for her venturesomeness, Gaston Cheverny proceeded to hunt up adventures of his own. I saw that the notion of fighting by the light of flickering stable lanterns mightily tickled his fancy. So I said, looking at the great clock in the tower of the Temple:

      “It is now ten o’clock. Shall we make it in an hour?”

      “We can easily meet in half an hour.”

      42

      “Certainly,” I answered. “We must each find a friend and a lantern.”

      “Done,” he cried—and turned off.

      I was much more puzzled to find a friend and a lantern than I was at the prospect of crossing swords with young Cheverny. The only human being I could think of at hand was Jacques Haret—and I loathed the thought of having him in that capacity. Just then, Jacques Haret came out of the door and passed through the courtyard. The time was short, so I stopped him, briefly stated the matter, and he accepted my cause, laughing uproariously the meanwhile. I had told him, of course, that Gaston Cheverny and I had quarreled about the greatness of Count Saxe.

      “I know Cheverny well,” he cried. “When I was a gentleman, I, too, had a place in Brabant. Old Peter, you must know, was a retainer of my family, and served with my father under Marshal Villars, and that is how, my estate being gone—bought by Regnard Cheverny, brother of Gaston—and Peter coming to Paris, he took service with Peggy Kirkpatrick. He had known the Capello family in Brabant.”

      Jacques Haret commonly told the truth about these things—and so I knew it to be true. He told me he had finally disposed of the children for the night, and proposed to get out of the way as quickly as possible. There was but little money in the theater, he said—the cobbler’s boy, his best actor, was so frightened at the adventures of the evening that he would never be worth anything as an actor again. Francezka would play no more; so he thought, on the whole, he had better cut the entire business, especially as it was possible the 43 matter might come to Peggy Kirkpatrick’s ears. Like myself, he regarded the meeting with Gaston Cheverny very lightly. I had my sword with me, and did not need to hire one as my adversary did, for he had on merely a dress sword, unfit for work. We could not lay hands on a surgeon, and I told Jacques Haret it mattered not—I would only be amusing myself with my young man, and he was only for saying that he crossed swords at a moment’s warning, about a young lady—and no one was likely to be hurt. We required a lantern, however, and Jacques Haret proposing a wine shop as a place likely to have a lantern for hire, we went in search of one—and speedily found it. And we were also able to secure what I knew would please my young cock mightily—one of those pieces of black cloth which old custom decrees shall be carried to throw over the corpse if either one of the combatants fall. It was no more likely to be used than a babe’s swaddling clothes, but it looked tragic, and I saw that young Cheverny was bent upon being as tragic as possible, under the circumstances.

      At the appointed time we were at the rendezvous. The Temple gardens were remote and retired, and at this hour of the night were perfectly deserted, not even a watchman being about.

      I found my young friend with another cavalier, some years older than himself—a regular petit-maître, Bellegarde by name, insipid beyond words, and very fretful because Gaston Cheverny had insisted on fighting at such a time.

      Jacques Haret went through the affair with the most killing gravity. Monsieur Bellegarde asked if an accommodation was possible. Jacques Haret replied no, 44 except upon the admission that Count Saxe was the greatest man that ever lived. This Bellegarde earnestly besought Gaston Cheverny to agree to, alleging that he knew of several persons who were of that mind, and besides he was then due at a supper party. Cheverny, however, persisted stoutly that Alexander the Great was a more considerable man, and the supper party must wait until after the meeting in question. Then Jacques Haret said there was no time to lose. I never saw a youngster so pleased as Gaston Cheverny was at that. He had come to Paris for adventures and here was one to his exact taste. I think the fighting by the lantern-light filled his boyish soul with rapture.

      For myself, I knew I was a good and experienced swordsman; and I meant to use all my skill to give him the right sort and size of cut—not a mere scratch, which would never have satisfied him—but one of those cuts, trifling in themselves, but which produce a good deal of blood, and which enable a fellow to carry his arm in a sling, and so win the sympathy of the ladies. Just as I had loved the youth on first seeing him, so I looked into his soul, and fancied his delight, his swagger, his airs of consequence, at appearing in company with his arm in a sling; and although I felt perfectly sure that he would die rather than reveal the name of the young lady, or rather the child about whom we had fallen out, I felt assured he could not keep to himself that he had fought in beauty’s quarrel. And the amusement Count Saxe would have out of it!

      We stripped off our coats, our swords were put into our hands, and I went about to oblige my young friend. 45 I found him a fairly good swordsman for his age, but I could have disarmed him at any moment. However, СКАЧАТЬ